the lovers left broken
by Becks Rylynn
Summary: 'There is still a dead body lying in the bed. It's just awake.' (Otherwise known as the fic in which Demon!Dean is the Winter Soldier to Laurel's Captain America.)
1. DO WE NOT KNOW WHAT WE HAVE DONE?

**Title:** _the lovers left broken_  
><strong>Fandom(s):<strong> Arrow and Supernatural  
><strong>Summary:<strong> _It's not that he wakes up. It's how he wakes up. There is no gasp of air as old life returns to the body, as the heart starts beating, the blood starts pumping, and the lungs fill with air. The eyes snap open, a brand new endless black, and the fingers twitch around the blade that has been placed in the hands, but there is no gasp, no movement, no breath of life. Because there is no life. There is still a dead body lying in the bed. It's just awake._ (Otherwise known as the fic in which Demon!Dean is the Winter Soldier to Laurel's Captain America.)  
><strong>Pairing(s): <strong>Laurel Lance/Dean Winchester, Tommy Merlyn/Oliver Queen, Sara Lance/Nyssa al Ghul, John Diggle/Felicity Smoak, implied Thea Queen/Sin. Mentions of past Laurel/Oliver (and implied Laurel/Oliver/Tommy) and past Thea Queen/Roy Harper.  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Angst/Horror.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> Mature  
><strong>Timeline:<strong> Maybe a day/two days after the season two finale of Arrow and directly after the season nine finale of SPN, although it probably messes with how much time passed in between Dean's death scene and him waking up as a demon. I was never clear on how much time went by. It goes into an alternate season ten/season three.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Blanket spoilers for both series. Especially season two and season nine.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Character death, pregnancy, childbirth, mentions of past miscarriage, vomiting, suicidal thoughts, depression, mental health issues, implied/referenced alcoholism, blood and gore.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Title from the poem ''Snow and Dirty Rain'' by Richard Siken.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters you recognize.

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><p><em>AN: For Kathey. Happy Halloween to you!<em>

_So..._

_May 20th, 2014. That's when I started this monster of a fic. My original goal was to have this completed by the time Arrow and Supernatural came back from the summer hiatus. I thought it would be easy enough to finish it in that length of time but here I am, I've been working on this story for nearly six months and I'm not even halfway done with it. What was supposed to be a oneshot has turned into a super long and plotty multi-chapter WIP with twists and turns and massive amounts of angst._

_And I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I am about it. Which is kind of a big deal for me because if I'm still this excited about a story six months after starting it, then it is something special. For instance, my excitement for my last supposed-to-be-long-and-multi-chapter Dean/Laurel (You Are a Hurricane) stalled after I got stuck writing a certain character and I'm sad to say it's not going anywhere. I actually want to delete it but I can't manage to pluck up the courage to press the 'delete story' button yet. (It's a really nerve wracking thing to have to do, okay?)_

_This story is not going to stall. I know I'm jinxing myself by saying that but I have this thing all planned out, I have several chapters of it written already, and I've worked on it almost every day for the past six months, so... *crosses fingers*_

_Before I stop blabbering on and on - which I should really do soon - I just wanted to address a few changes from canon that I have made in this story:_

_- #TommyLives. Because reasons._

_- Thea did not leave with Malcolm. Mostly because ew Malcolm but also because she's going to have a different origin story._

_- Diggle/Felicity is going to be a thing. I love the Lyla/Diggle relationship and the family they have and my original plan was to actually do Sara/Felicity (oh yeah, #SaraLives btw) but the call to do Diggle/Felicity (MY BEAUTIFUL OTP) was too strong and I really wanted to explore Nyssa/Sara, so... Lyla is a trusted friend and a member of the Suicide Squad but they didn't rekindle their romance._

_- Demon!Dean is going to be slightly different from the demon!Dean that appeared in canon because this fic was started before season ten._

_- This story will not be following Arrow season three storylines or Supernatural season ten storylines._

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><p><strong>the lovers left broken<strong>

_Written by Becks Rylynn_

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><p>.<p>

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**Chapter One: **

_DO WE NOT KNOW WHAT WE HAVE DONE?_

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Every love story is a ghost story

DAVID FOSTER WALLACE | The Pale King

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''You look tired,'' Tommy tells her quietly, standing in the doorway of her father's hospital room.

She wants to laugh.

He's just noticing this?

Was there ever a time when she wasn't tired?

Laurel smiles weakly and lifts her eyes from her father's prone form to Tommy. He's standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the lights in the hospital hallway, the bright fluorescent ones that spill over into the peaceful darkness of the room. She knows she must look awful. She is sitting by her father's hospital bed, barely awake, swallowed by a heavy, unnerving silence that is only broken by the soft mechanical beeping of the heart monitor. It beeps in a steady, anchoring rhythm and, quite poetically, her heart beats right along with it. Her hair is in desperate need of a wash and she has pulled it back into a sloppy, loose ponytail. She's wearing ripped jeans that she has owned since she was twenty years old, an old ratty Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt that she stole from Dean and refuses to give back, and a sweatshirt that briefly belonged to Cas during his short stint as a human before he re-graceified himself and went back to all trench coats all the time.

She doesn't feel like herself.

She doesn't feel steady. She feels shaky on her feet and there's this strange sort of electric humming under her skin, like a warning of things to come, and an equally strange tugging feeling inside of her body, like a craving of some sort. Some part of her, buried underneath the relief that her father will recover, will survive, the sorrow over Sara's departure, the shock over the events of the past two days, and the ever present concern for Dean's safety and whereabouts, Laurel _knows_. She can feel it. She can feel him. Or, more accurately, she _can't_ feel him.

''I honestly can't remember what it feels like to _not_ be tired,'' she admits in a murmur.

He lets out a graceless snort. ''You and me both.'' Tommy, as steady and soothing as ever, does not look much better than her. He's pale and there are dark smudges under his eyes that dull his usually lively blue eyes. His hair is mussed, his clothes are wrinkled, and if she looks hard enough, she knows she will see a faint tremor running through him like an electric current. She can't blame him. It's been a long couple of days. He pushes off the doorjamb and moves farther into the dark room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. It shuts out the light.

This feels important somehow. The absence of light. It feels like it means something.

Tommy drops a soft kiss to her forehead and takes a seat next to her. ''How is he?'' He nods towards her father.

''Oh, he's...'' This time, her attempts to smile go horribly wrong and she's left with a watery grimace instead. ''He's out of the woods. He's still got a long way to go, but he's - he's still here.''

Tommy smiles gently and slowly, hesitantly, reaches out and takes her hand. ''Of course he's still here,'' he says. ''He's one of the strongest people I know. In fact, there's only one Lance stronger than him.''

''Sara.''

He says, firmly, ''_You_.''

Laurel tears her eyes away from her dad and looks at Tommy, surprised. She doesn't know how to answer that. She doesn't know how to tell him just how wrong he is, so she just smiles and squeezes his hand.

''Speaking of Sara,'' he goes on. ''Have you - ''

''I can't reach her,'' she sighs. ''I doubt I'll be able to reach her for awhile.'' That's just the Lance family luck. One member heads off with a bunch of assassins, totally unreachable, and moments later, another member starts spewing blood and needs emergency surgery for severe internal bleeding. ''My mom's on her way, though. She missed her train, so she probably won't be here until morning, but she's coming.'' She leans forwards in her seat and lets go of Tommy's hand, grasping her father's instead. It's warm. He looks peaceful. She hasn't seen him this peaceful in a long time. At least someone's getting some rest.

''And Dean?'' Tommy questions innocently. ''Last time Quentin was in the hospital, he came running. He took a plane,'' he lets out a quiet chuckle. ''Which I know is a big deal.''

As soon as she hears the name, the absolutely paralyzing terror that she has been trying to push away slams right back into her.

The last time she saw Dean in person, he was leaving for Chicago and she was coming to terms with the fact that basically everyone in her life with any sort of connection to Oliver Queen had been lying to her for two years. He wasn't okay. He wasn't well. He hadn't been well for a long time, and she _knew_ that. She knew that and she let him go anyway. She had wanted to talk to him, to help him through it; she wanted him to know that she was there, that she was always there, but... She had just let him go.

Dean and Laurel have been together for over five years now. Five years she's been by his side and he's been by hers. She knows him like she knows the back of her hand. He has an amazing sixth sense about what she needs and when she needs it. They've been through so much shit together. They're partners. They're supposed to be together.

But there are some things that are just hers and some things that are just his. They have separate work lives. They have different interests. He prefers she stay far away from hunting. She prefers he stay out of whatever the hell the Arrow does. It's worked for them for the past five years. There is some minor crossover every now and then (the earthquake when he ran into a collapsing building to save her life and barely got out before the entire thing fell, the time she saved Dean's life from a brainwashed Castiel) but other than that, their work lives are completely separate. Which is fine. It's healthy.

The problem is it's more than their work lives that have been separated this past hellish year. They have always had a weirdly healthy relationship in spite of their shitty lives, but this past year life has kicked them while they were down. No. More than that. Life has beaten them bloody - _pulverized_ them - this past year. It has affected their relationship. The fragile, precarious thread that keeps their personal lives connected seems to have frayed over time. They've barely been a part of each other's lives lately.

Laurel hasn't talked to Sam in weeks and she can't even remember the last time she saw Cas or stepped foot in the bunker. She was there when Kevin died, but she didn't get to say goodbye to him when he left with his mom or apologize for not looking out for him better. She's still not exactly clear on what the hell happened to Garth. She didn't even know about the nasty fallout between Dean and Sam until Dean came home one night, drunk off his ass, barely able to stand, branded with the Mark of Cain. The second she saw it, she had burst into tears, screaming that he was supposed to be the one who didn't leave, because she knew, even then, that that damn thing was the beginning of the end.

Dean barely knows Sara and what he does know, he doesn't like. He respects her mother and loves her father, but he didn't like Sara the minute he met her, and the feeling is mutual. Sara has been open from day one about how she doesn't think Dean will ever be good enough for her. The last time he saw her father was when her father was stuck in prison. And the last time he saw her mother was the night of that dinner party. He came home, found Oliver and Laurel screaming at each other in the hallway, punched Oliver in the face, threw him in the elevator by the scruff of his neck (poor Ollie is still _really_ pissed about that) and told everyone else, ''I haven't slept in three days and you are all awful, _awful_ people. Get the fuck outta my house and leave us the hell alone or so help me God, I will throw you out on your goddamn asses.'' Which, in hindsight, is probably one of the biggest reasons why Sara doesn't like Dean.

It's been a rough year, is the point, and the worst part is, Laurel's pretty sure all of that crap was just the beginning.

The last time she saw Dean, they were standing in the doorway of the apartment. It was mid morning on a rainy Saturday. She was still wearing her pajamas and her robe, shivering because the heat was broken and it was unseasonably chilly. His hair was still wet from the shower and he tasted like coffee when she kissed him. ''Okay,'' she had laughed, in between kisses. ''You know the drill,'' her arms had wound around his neck while he busied himself by peppering kisses on every bit of exposed skin he could find, like he was trying to leave a mark. ''You be safe. Call a lot. Whenever you can. And come home as soon as possible.''

''As soon as possible,'' he agreed, and she still remembers the tired rumble of his voice and the softness in his eyes when he looked at her, the one that was reserved for very few people in his life.

''Right,'' she nodded, ''because the heat isn't going to fix itself.''

He had laughed, head tilted back, arms moving around her waist, stepping, if possible, closer to her. ''You only love me because I can fix things, don't you?''

''Nah, your cooking is the biggest draw. The fact that you're handy is just a plus.''

''On a related note, I left a lasagna in the fridge. Heat it at 375 until the cheese bubbles.''

''I bet you leave all the girls lasagnas.''

''Just the ones as bendy as you are, honey,'' he had winked.

''Dean!'' She shoved his shoulder and she had still been blushing when he covered her lips with his. It had been a long, slow, feel-it-all-the-way-down-to-your-bones kiss. Her hands had found their way to his hair, and his hands had slipped down her body and up her nightgown. ''Are you sure you can't stay a little while longer?'' She had asked when he finally pulled away.

''Don't tempt me,'' he groaned, and pushed her robe away just enough to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. ''I'll call you when we get to Chicago, okay?''

''Promise?''

''I promise, Laur.''

''Okay then,'' she had said, and smiled when he kissed her forehead. Her fingers had grasped his jacket lightly before letting it slip through her fingers. ''I love you,'' she said. Then added, ''And don't die. 'Cause remember you have to fix the heater.''

The last phone call, after a couple weeks of communicating through phone calls, texts and a few Skype dates, had taken place while she was in the Arrowcave for the first time. It was just a check in. Their customary _just want to let you know I'm not dead_ phone call. He had wanted to talk more but she had been preoccupied with everything that was happening and the fact that Tommy and Felicity were doing a piss poor job of pretending they weren't listening. ''Honey, I really can't talk right now,'' she had said. ''I'll call you as soon as I can, okay? I promise. Just hold that thought. I love you.''

After that, they had played telephone tag for awhile. Starling had become some sort of twisted Hell on earth, which she did not tell him in any of the messages she left for him and in every message he left for her, he was careful not to share too much information about what was happening on his end, which almost always meant that bad shit was going down on his end.

The last voicemail came earlier today. It wasn't even from his phone, just some unknown number that probably meant he was calling from a payphone. That fact alone is worrying, you know, given his thing about germs. The phone call came in while Laurel was sitting in a cold exam room staring at the wall in shock and her father was in surgery. She didn't even hear the phone buzz. She's listened to it four times now, trying to decipher what it means. It can't mean anything good.

_''Hey, pretty bird.''_ In the voicemail, his voice is slow, slower than usual, as if he's choosing his words very carefully or maybe like he doesn't know what to say. _''My girl...''_ And then there's this wet sounding laugh that doesn't really sound like a laugh at all. ''..._Listen, Laur... Laurel... Baby, you know that I..._'' Then there's an extended pause and a release of breath and she can just see him standing there, eyes closed, running a hand over his face and doing that jaw thing he does. _''Uh, you know what? Never mind. I'll call you back, okay? I promise.''_

The message ends.

Out of everything, it's the 'baby' that scares her the most. She and Dean are pet name kind of people, always have been, but they only ever call each other 'baby' when they're scared.

Laurel doesn't tell Tommy this. She doesn't tell him any of this.

All she says, as she squeezes her eyes shut and does her best to breathe through an intense wave of nausea, is, ''I can't get a hold of Dean.'' Her voice only shakes a little. She thinks that's progress. ''He's not answering my calls. Neither is Sam.''

Tommy doesn't say anything right away and when she looks over at him, there is a noticeable flicker of worry in his eyes that he tries to hide with a big, reassuring smile. ''Well, I'm sure he's fine,'' he says. ''It's Dean, right? He always comes home to you.''

She lets out a breath and blinks away the pressure behind her eyes. ''Right,'' she nods and sits back in her chair. ''Right, of course. It's Dean. I just, um,'' she looks down at her lap. ''I just really need to talk to him. I need to hear his voice and I need to know he's okay and I need to tell him...'' She trails off and clenches her teeth together.

Tommy eyes her suspiciously. ''Tell him what?''

Before she can attempt to come up with any sort of excuse, there's a soft knock on the door. Laurel's heart leaps into her throat and she stands so quickly her chair nearly topples over, hurrying around the bed.

Oliver pokes his head into the room. ''Hey.''

Laurel stops in her tracks and tries not to let her disappointment show.

Tommy, on the other hand. ''Ollie,'' he breathes out, and then jumps to his feet and attack hugs Oliver, nearly knocking him down to the ground. Once the disappointment has cleared and has been replaced with relief, Laurel rushes over to them and joins the group hug.

Oliver releases a breath like he's letting go of something important. ''Why don't more people great me like this?''

''You dickhead,'' Tommy murmurs. ''Where the hell did you go?''

Oliver shrugs. ''Lian Yu.''

Tommy and Laurel pull back in order to stare at him. Because clearly he's lost his mind. ''You've really gotta stop doing that,'' Tommy points out. ''It's not healthy.''

''It's a long story,'' is the only explanation they get.

''How are you?'' Laurel asks. ''Are you okay?''

''Me?'' Oliver stares at her incredulously. ''You're asking how _I_ am? Laurel, _I'm_ fine. How are you? How's your dad?''

''Still kicking,'' she says. ''They had to operate and he's...'' She glances over her shoulder. ''He's going to be unconscious for awhile - he's on some pretty heavy medication - but he'll pull through.''

''And you? You're okay?''

''I'm okay,'' she nods, bringing her hand to his arm briefly.

''What about you?'' Oliver looks at Tommy. ''You good?''

''Peachy keen, man.''

''Slade didn't - ''

''Slade mostly annoyed the fuck out of us,'' Tommy deadpans. ''Also, I think he might think you're in love with me.''

''Yeah, what about Felicity?'' Laurel asks. ''Or Thea. Is Thea okay?''

''Thea's...'' Oliver pauses. ''Angry.''

''With you?''

''With...the world.''

''Well,'' Laurel folds her arms. ''She has a right to her feelings. Just give her time. She'll come around. And Felicity?''

''Felicity's fine,'' Oliver says quickly, a little too quickly, and then winces. ''I mean... She will be,'' he corrects. ''She's a little rattled. But Dig's with her. He's good at keeping her calm.''

Tommy leans over to whisper in Laurel's ear, ''He's totally in love with her.''

''What?!'' Oliver's voice comes out in a surprised yelp, eyes widening. ''No, I'm not!''

Tommy stares at him for a second before he heaves a giant sigh and facepalms. ''Not you,'' and the grin can be heard in his voice. ''You lovable idiot.'' He looks up at Oliver, locking eyes with him. ''John. He is one hundred percent, unchangeably _besotted_ with her.''

''Nice word,'' Laurel whispers in his ear.

Tommy winks at her, then looks back at Oliver, tilting his head to the side. ''Haven't you noticed?''

Oliver's face scrunches up and he scratches the back of his neck in genuine confusion. ''Not, uh... Not really.''

Laurel allows a small laugh to escape, because she can't help herself, and pats him on the cheek. ''Oh, sweetie.''

Tommy shakes his head. ''You're fucking adorable.''

Oliver says, more to himself, ''Huh.''

Tommy and Laurel both move back to their seats and, after a moment of silent contemplation, Oliver drags over another vacant chair and settles in. Laurel curls up in her chair, feet tucked under her, head propped up in her hand. Instantly, Tommy props his feet up on Oliver's chair and sticks out his tongue when he gets a glare in reply. In response, Oliver makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat, puts his feet on Tommy's chair and grins triumphantly. Tommy rolls his eyes fondly. It's the strangest version of 'I love you' that Laurel has ever seen, but it's so distinctly Tommy and Oliver.

''Are you sure you're okay?'' Oliver's voice is gentle but prodding and it takes her a minute to realize that he's talking to her.

''Yeah, I'm fine,'' she says. ''Why?''

He raises his eyebrows and points to her wrist. ''Hospital bracelet.''

''Oh.'' Shit. She tugs the sleeve of the sweatshirt over her wrist and folds her hands in her lap. ''It's nothing.'' When she looks up again, both of them are sending her unconvinced, concerned looks. ''Guys, I'm fine.''

''Swear?'' In the dim light, exhausted and worried, Tommy looks like a little boy.

''I swear.'' She licks her dry lips and searches her mind for something to tell them. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to tell them, truth be told, but she's not ready for anyone to know just yet. It still hasn't sunk in for her. She's still trying to come to grips with it. Not to mention, she refuses to tell anyone until she tells Dean. ''I was feeling a little dizzy earlier,'' she begins, which is the truth, ''and I was worried that maybe there was still some of whatever was in that poison dart left in my system, so I admitted myself and they ran a few tests. But I'm completely fine. Clean bill of health and everything.'' There's a long pause in which Oliver has gone all rage monster and Tommy's jaw has dropped to the floor. That's when she remembers they don't actually know about the poison thing. ''Oh,'' she smiles nervously. ''You guys didn't know about the poisoned dart, did you?''

''I'm sorry,'' Tommy starts, ''the _poisoned dart_?''

''Who?'' Oliver growls. ''When?''

''Oh, it's not a big deal,'' Laurel waves it off. ''Sara's assassin girlfriend just has a thing for poisoning me, apparently. I'm choosing to be flattered by it. It means she sees me as a threat. But it doesn't matter because she's gone now and I'm fine, so we're all going to drop this.'' She levels them both with a pointed stare. ''Am I making myself clear?''

They look at each other briefly, both of them looking mildly frightened, which she is going to take as a success, and then they nod. Tommy sighs and lets his head fall back, eyes on the ceiling. Oliver keeps his watchful eyes on Laurel for a moment longer, possibly a moment longer than necessary, and then he lowers his gaze. Laurel bites down on her lip. None of them say anything. The silence between them is calm and comfortable. The beeping of the heart monitor is like a lullaby. Laurel watches Tommy and Oliver instead of staring at her father and thinking about everything that could have happened. Neither one of them look particularly relaxed. Tommy's eyes are closed but she can tell he's not sleeping, body too tense, breathing too quick. Oliver's eyes are open and trained on the ceiling. He looks tense and trouble. She wonders, idly, if he's gone home yet. If he's walked the empty halls of his big manor, tried to talk to Thea, sifted through his mother's belongings like Laurel once did with his things and Sara's things after the boat went down.

She looks back at her father. It was a close call. She could have lost him. She almost did. But she didn't. He's here and he's alive. So why does she feel like something has been taken from her, brutally snatched away from her when she wasn't looking? What is the heavy feeling in her heart?

She takes out her phone, fully charged, ready and waiting for a call from Dean, and she listens to the message again.

_Hey, pretty bird._

She closes her eyes.

_My girl..._

She stops it before she can hear any more, makes sure it's still saved, and calls Dean. It rings. And rings. And rings some more. She gets his voicemail - _''leave your name,_ _number and nightmare at the tone''_ - followed by an automated voice telling her that his inbox is full. She presses her lips together and swallows a half irritated, half terrified sigh. She gets halfway through dialing his second cell, the one he keeps in the glove compartment of the Impala, before she remembers it was destroyed a few weeks back. She keeps meaning to run out and buy another one so she can fill it full of pictures of her, but she hasn't yet. This leaves one number left. His emergency cell. The one he keeps on him at all times, no matter what. It rings and rings and then she hears his voice. _''This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do.''_

A noise escapes her throat, disappointed and scared. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Oliver lift his head and Tommy opens his eyes. They're both looking at her. She means to tell them to stop but the phone beeps in her ear. She has no idea what to say. After a solid five seconds of dead silence, she says, tersely, ''You need to call me as soon as you can. I need to know you're okay.'' She lowers her voice and ducks her head so that her hair falls in her face, an illusion of privacy. ''You're scaring me, Dean,'' she tells his voicemail. She ends the call before she can ramble on about everything she needs to tell him and realizes, seconds too late, that she forgot to say 'I love you.'

A glance over at Tommy and Oliver has them both scrambling to look away from her, both pretending they didn't hear a thing. ''Pretend you're asleep,'' she hears Tommy whisper, as he gives Oliver a kick. It might be more for her benefit than his. Tommy's always trying to make her laugh.

She smiles weakly, but can't manage a laugh. She slips her phone back in her pocket and wraps her arms around her middle. Another silence takes over the room. This one is less comfortable and more deafening.

''So,'' Tommy's voice startles her, breaking the silence. He sits up in his chair, looks at Oliver, then at Laurel. ''It's been a weird couple of days, huh?''

Laurel lets out a sharp bark of laughter that tastes bitter on her tongue. ''It's been a weird year,'' she corrects.

''It's been a weird six years,'' Oliver adds.

And then, out of nowhere, Tommy starts to laugh. Tommy starts to _cackle. _

Laurel arches a single brow. Oliver looks startled, staring at his best friend as if he's lost his mind. ''Tommy, buddy, do we need to take a walk up to the psych ward?''

''Dude,'' Tommy is bent over, clutching his stomach and wheezing. ''Dude, you're fucking Hawkeye.''

Oliver blinks. ''Excuse me?''

''You run around in leather pants and a mask with a bow and arrow.''

''It...'' Laurel smirks. ''It does sound pretty ridiculous when you say it out loud.''

''You're Robin Hood!'' Tommy exclaims.

Oliver's lips twitch.

Laurel feels laughter bubble up in her throat. She can't help herself. She starts giggling. ''You're totally Robin Hood,'' she agrees.

Oliver starts chuckling. ''I kinda am, aren't I?''

''Hey, is it as weird as my boyfriend is a monster hunter? Because my boyfriend is a monster hunter,'' she says, and then completely dissolves. It does sound ridiculous. Everything about her life sounds ridiculous. It's like she's stuck in the fucking Buffyverse. Her boyfriend/partner/sort of common-law husband hunts demons and ghosts and monsters. Oliver is the Arrow. What even _is_ her life?

''Your boyfriend's Buffy,'' Tommy squeaks.

''And your sister's a leather clad vigilante in love with an assassin,'' Oliver adds.

''My father's a super villain,'' Tommy says. ''And Thea - the girl who used to have a crush on me - is my sister.''

And then they're all laughing. Laughing hysterically, actually. They're wheezing, nearly falling off their chairs, stomachs aching, because if they don't laugh, they're going to start bawling. Or possibly go insane. Oliver has just lost his mother, Tommy's father was responsible for the deaths of over 500 people, and Laurel... Well. Laughing definitely seems like the better option here.

''Our lives, man,'' Tommy shakes his head and wipes at his eyes. ''Our fucking lives.''

''We're fucked,'' Oliver manages to get out through peals of laughter. ''We are all fucked.''

The laughter is a coping mechanism, or possibly shock, but it's nice. For the first time in a long time, Laurel feels like she has her friends back. It's never going to be the same, and she doesn't want it to be. She has Dean now and her relationship with Dean is...so different than whatever it was that she was with Oliver and Tommy in the past. Dean is it for her. Besides, you can't go back. You can only go forward. But Oliver and Tommy are always going to be a part of her, they're two of her best friends, they're practically family, and it's nice to have them back. They've been pulling apart over this past year. It's nice to come home.

''God,'' Tommy says, once they have all caught their breath. ''How did we get here?''

''Uh,'' Oliver raises his hand. ''My bad. Sorry about that.''

Tommy bursts into laughter again.

In the pocket of her sweatshirt, Laurel's phone buzzes. She nearly jumps out of her skin. Her movements are hasty and uncoordinated and she nearly drops the phone as she's pulling it out. The Caller ID says Sam.

Sam.

Not Dean.

Her heart slams against her ribcage.

''I-I have to take this,'' she says, barely sparing a glance at the boys. ''I'll be right back.''

The last thing she hears before she steps out into the brightly lit hallway is Tommy's giggle of, ''Ollie... Ollie, we _share a sister_. What the fuck is happening?''

As she steps out into the hallway, Laurel blinks as her eyes adjust to the sudden onslaught of bright lights. She doesn't know what to expect from his phone call. Sam rarely calls her these days, so if he's calling her now... She's not sure how this could be a good thing. There's a part of her that doesn't even want to pick up. If she picks up, she doesn't have to hear whatever bad news Sam is about to give her. Unless it's Dean and he's just using Sam's phone because his was crushed by a monster. Not like it would be the first time.

Yeah.

Yeah, that's probably what's happening.

''Hello?''

_''Laurel.''_

It's bad.

''Sam.''

He doesn't say anything for a long moment, but she can hear his harsh, ragged breathing and that says more than you know. When he does eventually speak up again, his voice is wrecked. Like someone has taken his entire world and shattered it. ''_Laurel_.'' It's just a half sob of her name, nothing more, but it says everything.

Her vision blurs. There's a deafening roar in her ears and she can't catch her breath. ''No.'' Everything feels sideways all of a sudden. Her legs feel like jelly, she feels dizzy and she thinks she might throw up. Or pass out. Possibly both. ''No.'' She reaches out blindly for something to hold onto, placing a hand flat against the wall. ''Don't. He's - No. No, no, no, he's fine. He's fine. He's always fine. He always comes home to me.'' There is no answer. ''Sam, tell me he's coming home to me.''

Sam sucks in a breath. He sounds winded when he speaks. _''I'm sorry,''_ it comes out in a croak. _''I'm so sorry.''_

''No.'' She shakes her head. ''No, please, no.''

_''I...tried. But I... I couldn't.''_ Then he splinters and she's left listening to him sob.

She can't breathe. None of the air is reaching her lungs and her stomach is churning. She doubles over, gasping for breath, one hand on the wall. ''No.'' It's an agonized moan this time. She can't keep herself upright. Her already unsteady legs go weak beneath her and she collapses, sinking to her knees, trying to breathe. There is something in her throat. Something is crawling and scratching its way up. ''This isn't happening,'' she chokes out. ''This can't be happening. ...How - '' her voice cracks. ''How did it happen?''

Sam doesn't answer her.

She's not sure she even wants to know.

_This was always how it was gonna end, Laur,_ she hears Dean's voice say in some sort of grief or shock induced auditory hallucination. It's like he's right next to her, whispering in her ear. _We both knew that._

The tears don't come slow. There is nothing gradual about her breakdown. She breaks down completely, whimpers turning into guttural, howl-like sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks. She is still on the ground, shattered, sobbing, and shaking, when Oliver and Tommy find her.

.

.

.

Tommy refuses to let her go to Kansas alone.

It's probably for the best. Laurel is incoherent and can barely stand. There's no way she could make it through the flight by herself. Oliver has tickets for the red eye flight waiting for them by the time they reach the airport, he'll have a rental car waiting for them by the time the plane touches down, and he promises to stay with her father until her mother gets there. Tommy handles everything at the airport. He gets them checked in and through security without a hassle, and he doesn't let go of her hand. They're good boys.

It's not an extremely long plane ride, but it feels like it takes forever. Tommy tries to coax her into sleeping but she can't. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees something bloody, whether it's Dean's ravaged body or the memory of her father coughing up blood and telling her that he can't breathe. It's the worst three hours of her life.

She spends the time thinking of all the ways it could have happened.

Was he all clawed up? What about his heart? Was it damaged? Was he shot? Stabbed? Was his head bashed in? Does he still have his heart? Or did something rip it out of him? Does he have everything else? Is he in pieces? How much of him is left?

Was it quick? Or was it slow, drawn out and long? If it was slow, how much did it hurt? Did the pain pass quickly, leaving a numb, floating kind of feeling? Or was it excruciating until the very last second?

Did he choke on his blood? Did he choke on her name? Was he alone? Did he know what was happening? Did he see it coming? What were his last words? Were they about her? Sam? Castiel? What did he see? Right at the end, right before he went, what did he see? Did he see his mom? Was she there? Did she come and get him? Did that make it better? Is he in heaven? Was he able to get in? Is he at peace?

Was he scared?

His _heart._

What about his heart?

She pictures it in her head. His death. She sees it again and again, in all different ways. She tries to think about what his last words could have been. She hears the words in her head. She hears his voice. And then she realizes, of course, that she will never hear his voice again.

By the time they're on the ground, the sun has risen and she just wants to see him, whether it's a pretty sight or not.

From the airport, it's about an hour long drive to Lebanon, where the bunker is located, which gives her more time to think.

In the car, she thinks about all of the ways this could be a false alarm. Maybe he was just severely injured. Maybe Cas healed him. Maybe Sam did something stupid and brought him back. Maybe this is all just a really cruel prank.

Maybe, when she walks in the door, he'll be standing there, healthy and alive, and waiting for her. He'll kiss her hello and apologize for scaring her. ''It was close,'' he'll say, ''but I'm here, pretty bird.'' She'll be too happy to be mad at him for putting her through this and she'll be so glad to see him, so glad that he's alive, that she won't want to stop touching him, just to make sure he's there. And then she'll tell him. She'll whisper it in his ear with a nervous smile and his eyes will cloud over with momentary shock and disbelief before lighting up with happiness. He'll pick her up and spin her around, calling out, ''Hey, Sammy, guess what?!''

And they'll live happily ever after and he'll come home to her _always_ and he won't be dead.

He won't be dead.

She listens to the message twice on the car ride there.

_''Hey, pretty bird... My girl... Listen, Laur... Laurel... Baby, you know that I... Uh, you know what? Never mind. I'll call you back, okay? I promise.''_

.

.

.

She had slapped him across the face when he showed her the angry red Mark on his arm and explained to her what it meant. They had fought over empty wine and whiskey bottles, both less than sober, eyes red and raw. He had been determined and desolate. She had been angry and scared.

''You're going to die!'' She had screamed at him, right after she threw a glass at his head, because he didn't seem to understand how every word that came out of his mouth sounded like a goodbye. ''You're going to die and I'm going to watch!'' She had been hysterical that night. ''Why?'' She asked. ''Why do you keep doing this? Why do you want to die so badly?''

His voice had been remarkably calm, albeit hoarse and unusually quiet, when he responded, ''You ever think maybe you would be better off? You ever think maybe everyone would be better off? I'm _poison_, Laurel. What have I ever done for you that's _good?''_

She had burst into these incredibly undignified sobs at that, hands coming up to cover her mouth, because it was one of the scariest things she had ever heard him say. It was terrifying that he thought that about himself, that life and the people around him had both knowingly and unknowingly beaten it into him that he was better off dead, that he was always going to be the bad guy, that every choice he made was the wrong one and his pain didn't matter as much as Sam's or Castiel's or hers. ''What have you ever done for me?'' She asked incredulously. ''You _love_ me, Dean. Why don't you ever think that's enough? Why can't that be enough?''

He had looked regretful, not because he didn't mean it but because he had made her cry. ''Laur...''

She crossed the room to kiss him. She stood on her tiptoes and took his face in both of her hands, pulling him down so she could kiss his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead. ''We're not,'' she told him. ''We're not better off without you. We're not. You have no idea, Dean. You have no idea how dark this world would be without you in it. You have no idea how dark _my_ world would be.''

He wound up burying his face in her hair, not crying but close to it, breathing shallowly and whispering apologies into her hair while she held him.

But he never took it back.

He never took back the fact that he legitimately believed the world would be better off without him.

.

.

.

Sam is drunk when he opens the door to the bunker to let them in. He's wobbly on his feet, his eyes are bloodshot, and he smells like whiskey. He looks like a ghost. ''Laurel,'' he slurs out a greeting and gives her a shaky smile. He mumbles out her name again, ''Laurel'' and then looks behind him, waiting for Dean to come and greet her.

Dean doesn't come.

''I... I don't...'' Sam looks helpless. She has never seen him look so helpless before. ''I don't know what to do.''

Laurel chokes back a sob and closes the small but big distance between them, wrapping her arms around him.

Sam Winchester is older than her, tougher than her, significantly larger, he has been through hell (both literally and figuratively) and the amount of loss he has suffered is insurmountable. He is not a little boy. He has never been a little boy. Not to her. Dean always saw him as his baby brother, his kid, someone who needed to be protected at all costs, even if it meant giving his life so Sam could live. Laurel always saw a grown, capable man. She has never faulted Dean for his view of Sam because to her, Sara is and always will be the giggling little girl with scraped knees and wild hair, chasing butterflies in the summer sunset. It's just that she's never seen Sam like that. She's never seen him the way Dean does.

Until now.

She thinks she gets it now.

There's a boy in her arms, lost and shaking, and he's in pieces, and he's not okay and he's not going to be okay.

Laurel knows what it feels like to be an older sibling who loses a younger sibling.

Being an older sibling is like having a piece of your heart and your soul walk around outside of your body, and when you lose them, the entire world goes with them. You don't just lose the woman who got on the boat or the man in the hospital bed; you lose the girl who chased butterflies and the boy you rode to the ER on your handlebars. There's zero chance of ever being whole again when you're an older sibling who loses a younger one because you have failed the most important job you have ever been given, and they have taken your heart, your whole heart, with them; to the bottom of the ocean where she fell, to the church where he gave up.

A younger sibling who loses an older sibling, though.

Laurel has no idea what that's like.

Is it like losing your strength? Is every bit of courage stripped away from you? Do you die with them? Or is it like losing the one thing keeping you here on the ground and without them you're left struggling to find solid ground before you float away? Is it like being taken off life support? Can you breathe without them?

Do you _want_ to?

Sam is a heavy weight in her arms. He melts into her like he's a child seeking comfort from his mother and, just this once, Laurel decides she can be that for him. ''I know,'' she whispers, carding her fingers through his hair. ''I know, sweetie, I don't either. But I'm here, okay? I'm here.''

Sam exhales shakily.

She holds him tighter. She thinks this is what Dean would've wanted.

.

.

.

He doesn't look like he's sleeping.

It's a common misconception that dead bodies just look like they're sleeping because in TV shows and movies, the grieving family member/love interest - undoubtedly someone beautiful who cries delicately without ruining their makeup - always says, ''He looks like he's just sleeping. He looks so peaceful.''

Dean doesn't look like he's sleeping. And he sure as hell doesn't look peaceful.

He looks _dead._

Tommy and Sam didn't think it would be a good idea for her to see the body.

''It's not him,'' said Tommy. ''It's just a body.''

''He wouldn't want you to see him like this,'' said Sam.

They're both right, of course. Dean _wouldn't_ have wanted her to see him like this, and it _is_ just a body. But it's _Dean's_ body. It's Dean's face, and his hands, his arms and legs, his dried blood, his closed eyes, and she needs to see. She won't believe it until she sees.

So here she is, standing beside the bed, in the room he decorated, with the memory foam mattress that remembers him. Tommy's in the doorway, there's a picture of her on the nightstand, and a body in the bed. None of it feels right. This is someone else's life, someone else's grief, someone else's other half lying dead. It can't possibly be her life. This mourning can't possibly belong to her. ''He...'' She reaches out to touch him, to run her finger through his hair, but she stops before she can, fingers curling away. ''He doesn't look like Dean,'' she says. ''He doesn't look like my Dean.''

''That's not Dean, Laurel,'' Tommy says from his spot in the doorway, where he can't bring himself to look at the body, especially not the face.

Her eyes water. ''I know.''

Probably one of the most disturbing parts of this nightmare is that Laurel knows what's going to happen to him. She knows what happens to a human body in the hours and the days after the heart stops. She looked it up once. After Sara and Oliver. It was a strange and morbid thing to do and she had known that, but there was a part of her that just needed to know. She needed to know what would happen to them. So she knows. She knows how the skin gets purple and waxy, how the lips grow colorless, how and when rigor mortis sets in. She knows about how dead bodies begin to bloat, how they supposedly smell like rotting meat, how after three days...

She knows these things. She's just never seen it happen up close.

''Tommy,'' her voice is a croak. She tries to turn to look at him, but she can't bring herself to look away from Dean. ''I think I...'' She swallows. ''Can you give me a minute?''

''Laurel - ''

''It's fine,'' she tries. ''Just... Can you go check on Sam? Please? Please, Tommy, _please_.'' She waits until she's sure he's left before she even tries to come up with something to say. She wants to say something that means something.

In the movies, there is always a speech. Something epic about death and how Character A is better now because they had the chance to know deceased Character B. How they're going to carry the dead person around with them in their heart for the rest of their life. ...Maybe that's the funeral scene.

What she really wants is to scream and cry and plead with him to wake up, to open his eyes and come back to her. She can't think of a single thing to say. Tears well up in her eyes and spill over, trailing down her cheeks. She covers her mouth with her hands and tries, unsuccessfully, to keep a sob in.

''We're not better off,'' she says to the body in the bed, the one with the pale fingernails and the dried blood making his shirt stick to his skin. ''We're not better off without you. Don't you understand that?'' She closes her eyes.

She takes three deep breaths.

''You were laughing,'' her voice is unsteady. ''When I fell in love with you,'' she clarifies. ''You were laughing.'' She inches closer to the bed and slowly, carefully, brushes her fingertips over the back of his hand. He's cold. A strangled whimper escapes her lips, pushing up her throat and out into the open, hanging between them. ''We had been dating for a month,'' she says, ''and I was going to break up with you because you... You scared me. It wasn't what you did. It had nothing to do with your past, or your drinking, or your recklessness. It was the way you made me feel. It was terrifying. _You_ were terrifying. I-I wanted you so much and I couldn't...'' She shakes her head. ''I didn't like how much I wanted you. I thought it was dangerous. I thought I wasn't ready. But then I heard you laughing.'' She takes his hand and tries to thread her fingers through his. His hand is not limp, like one might expect, but stiff and the fingers don't... She settles for placing her hand over his and thinks maybe she can warm him up. ''I don't remember what you were laughing at. It was probably something stupid,'' she chokes out a laugh. ''But... I had never heard you laugh. Not like that. It was straight up full body laughter. Eye crinkles, all teeth. And I fell in love with you. ...I _loved_ your laugh. I...I won't hear you laugh again.''

There's a part of her that wants to get as far away from this body as possible. It's cold and stiff and not how she wants to remember him. That's not what she does. She crawls onto her side of the bed, next to Dean, and she curls into his cold body. ''I love you,'' she kisses his bloodless, cracked lips. ''I love you,'' she kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck. ''I love you so much.'' He smells like blood. The scent is so strong she swears she can taste it. The silent tears streaming down her cheeks turn into weeping and then she's sobbing into the crook of his neck, clutching at him desperately. ''Don't do this,'' she begs. ''Please don't do this.''

His arms don't wrap around her. There is no warmth, no steady, comforting beat of his heart. When she lays her head on his chest, he is still. There is nothing soothing about this.

''Hey,'' she lifts her head. ''I have something to tell you.''

And then she tells him.

She whispers it in his ear. She half expects his eyes to blink open and for him to turn his head and say something like, ''Are you sure? Talk about your bad timing, huh?''

There is no response.

He doesn't open his eyes. Logically, she shouldn't be disappointed by this. She is anyway. She lets out a sigh and puts her head back down on his chest. The silence in the room is deafening. ''You were supposed to fix the heater,'' she blurts. ''You promised you would call me back.''

Dean doesn't answer.

.

.

.

Sam is standing in the doorway, pale and swaying.

Laurel is still curled up next to Dean. She doesn't know how long she's been here, if she actually did drift off to sleep for a few minutes or if that was her imagination, but she knows he's getting colder. ''I should get up,'' she slurs, so worn out she can barely get the words out.

Sam nods. ''Probably.'' He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand.

''I don't want him to be alone,'' she says.

Sam says, voice cracking, ''Yeah.''

''His skin...'' She trails off and clamps her mouth shut to keep from throwing up.

''It's the blood,'' is the weak answer she gets. ''His blood. It's pooling to the bottom of the - the body.''

''I can't warm him up,'' she says, and there's a note of genuine distress to her voice, even though she knows it would be impossible to warm him up. ''It doesn't feel right. Dean was always like a furnace.''

A stunned, trembling laugh forces its way out of Sam's throat. ''He was.''

''My hands and feet are always cold,'' she says. ''They get cold so easily.'' Her voice sounds completely devoid of emotion. She can't even summon up the energy to care. ''Didn't matter how hot it was, whether it was summer or winter. Every night, my hands and feet would be so cold. But he never complained. I would tangle my feet with his and he'd be so warm. And he would never complain. In the winter, when I forget to wear gloves, which is almost always,'' a few tears slip out of the corners of her eyes, but she barely even feels it, ''he always wraps my hands up in his to keep them warm.''

Sam doesn't respond and she doesn't look up to see if he's still there. She's too tired. She does hear liquid sloshing around in the bottle he's holding. She thinks she should probably tell him to stop. When he speaks up again, his voice is oddly controlled. He's trying really hard. He's trying really hard _for her_. ''He kept trying to say something.''

Her blood runs cold. She lifts her head. ''What?''

''At the...'' Sam winces. Shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. ''At the...end... The very end... He kept trying to...'' He has to stop, raking a hand through his unruly hair. His eyes close briefly and then snap open, wild and unfocused, his breathing speeding up. Flashbacks. ''He told me some, uh, some stuff. But then he tried - He kept trying to... Tell her. That's what he kept saying. Tell Laurel. _Tell her, tell her, tell her_. But he never - he never finished. I don't know if - if maybe he didn't know what to say. If he was trying to come up with some great last words for you. It...'' He looks at the ground, barest of smiles on his lips. ''That sounds like something he would do for you. Try and give you some peace, you know? Leave something behind for you.''

She almost bursts out laughing at that. She can feel these hysterical bitter giggles rising in her throat.

Leave something behind.

Ha.

Imagine that.

''Or, I don't know,'' Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. ''Maybe he just couldn't get all the words out. But that's what he... Right before he... That's what he kept saying. Tell her.''

Laurel would love to feel something following his admission. She should be wondering about what it was he wanted to tell her. Was it that he loved her? That he was sorry? All she feels right now is numb. It is all encompassing. ''Guess we both have things we never got to tell each other,'' she whispers.

They don't say anything else.

Laurel lies next to the cold, unnaturally stiff body of the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. Sam stands in the doorway and tries to drink away the brother he doesn't know how to live without. In between them, Dean is still dead, still unmoving, still gone and never coming back. Every person in this room is a broken mess and none of them will heal. The silence eats away at them while Dean deteriorates and decays.

She pulls away from the body and pushes herself up into a sitting position slowly and carefully, biting back a grimace. Her entire body feels sore and heavy with exhaustion. She needs to sleep. She draws her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. She glances at Sam, but he's looking down at the ground, rubbing at his temples with one hand, the other still gripping the bottle of alcohol he's apparently using as his crutch. She looks at De - the body.

Laurel licks her lips slowly and then leans over and carefully, reluctantly, digs her hand into his pocket. Despite the fact that she has been literally cuddling with a corpse for the past who knows how long, this suddenly feels creepy and invasive and so, so awkward, mostly because his body is so stiff that it's difficult to reach his back pockets. Rigor mortis has set in. The body will start to smell soon. His face will... Finally, she produces his wallet and flips it open. Inside are a few bills, a few scattered receipts for liquor stores and gas stations, a bit of loose change, the fraudulent credit cards she pretends she doesn't know about, and two pictures. Because Dean was an old man who still kept pictures in his wallet instead of on his phone.

One of them is of her. She's laughing in the picture, eyes off to the side, one hand reaching up to fix her hair. On the back of the picture it says:

_Laur _

_my pretty bird_

The other picture is older, crinkled and faded. It's been folded and unfolded. It looks like it has survived a lot. It's a school picture of a smiling little boy with a mop of unruly dark hair and a missing front tooth. He can't be older than five or six and he's positively beaming, eyes lit up as he poses nicely in front of the generic blue background. On the back, written in permanent black marker, unmistakably written by a boy not a man, it simply reads:

_Sammy_

She starts laughing. She starts laughing hysterically, which quickly dissolves into tears and then turns into some sort of messy in between.

Sam pushes off the doorframe. ''Laurel.'' He looks deeply concerned. He probably thinks she's having some sort of breakdown. ''What... What are you doing?'' Without a word, she hands him the picture and keeps laughing and crying, fingers digging into the comforter on the bed. As soon as Sam sees it, he goes pale. His face twists and contorts in pain. Apparently, Sam did not know about this picture. ''I didn't know he - '' Sam breaks off and looks up at her briefly, then over at the body. ''This was in his wallet?''

She nods, hysteria turning into harsh gasps as she tries to regain control of her breathing. She crawls out of the bed, grasping the nightstand for support. The picture of her flutters back onto the bed, next to Dean. ''He loved you,'' she says simply. Over his shoulder, she catches sight of another picture. It's the one Dean kept in his wallet for over thirty years, the one she had framed the previous year, the one that is sitting on the desk right now. Mary Winchester and her little boy are smiling at them from the other side of the room. Laurel gently brushes past Sam to get to the picture, picking it up and looking down at the happy little boy in the picture. She swallows painfully.

''I - I know he...loved me,'' Sam says, ''but he kept this in his wallet for - What? Twenty seven years? Who - Who does that?''

''I don't know why you're so shocked, Sam,'' she says. She places the photograph of Mary and Dean face down on the desk.

_I'm sorry,_ she wants to tell Mary. _You shouldn't have to see him like this. You shouldn't have to see either of them like this. They wouldn't want that for you._

''Dean's always thought of you as more than just his little brother,'' she turns around to lean against the desk, folding her arms. ''You were his kid. You've been his kid since the night your mother died. Since your father decided to mold him into a parent because he couldn't be bothered to raise his own kids. You were his entire world. You were his whole heart. How do you not get that?'' She feels like maybe she is being a bit too harsh. Too cold. She doesn't mean to be. That's not who she is. Sam's hurting too, probably more so than she is. She just feels so empty right now. It's hard to be warm and loving when the world has scooped out your big heart and replaced it with something mangled and twisted and wrecked.

Sam sinks into the chair by the bed and stares down at the picture. His eyes are dry but wide and there's something that she can't quite put her finger on. Something about the expression on his face that's dark and determined. It's...worrying. She knows Winchesters. She knows what they do when one of them dies. She picks at the hospital bracelet that's still on her wrist and watches Sam. The hospital bracelet rips and falls to the floor. She looks over at Dean, at the blood and the wounds.

She doesn't really want to know, but she has to ask.

''Sam,'' she clears her throat. ''Tell me what happened.''

He looks up. ''Laurel...'' He shakes his head. ''No.''

''Sam.''

''Dean wouldn't want you to - ''

''Yes, well, Dean is _dead_,'' her voice is sharper than intended. ''He doesn't get a say.'' She pushes off the desk and takes a few steps towards him. ''Just tell me what happened,'' she pleads. ''Tell me everything you know about how he died.''

.

.

.

She shouldn't have asked.

.

.

.

Tommy finds her in the bathroom.

She's sitting on the ground by the toilet, afraid to move. The last time she ate was yesterday. She hastily scarfed down some oatmeal in the hospital cafeteria and grabbed a muffin when she ran home to change her clothes and check if Dean was home. There's really nothing in her body to throw up. That didn't stop her body from rebelling on her when Sam told her what happened to Dean.

It's not just the thought of him dying. It's not the blood or the sounds he must have made as he was dying or the things he said. It's the thought of him dying in that much pain. There is nothing glamorous about dying, not ever. There's nothing peaceful about death. Even when you're one hundred years old and you die in your sleep there is still something so frightening and final and disturbing about death. But... To think of Dean dying like that. So bloody and brutal and violent, beaten all to hell and then stabbed and still dying _slowly_, trying to hang on long enough to say the things he needed to say. How is that fair? Why would the fates, the powers that be, God, put him through so much for it to end this way?

Tommy takes a seat on the floor across from her and lets out a tired sigh. ''I told him not to tell you.''

She looks down at her hands. ''I wanted him to tell me that it was quick,'' she mutters. ''That he didn't suffer.''

''I know.''

She glances up at him through her hair, but his eyes are looking up at the light. She wonders how he's taking this. Dean was his friend, after all. Tommy was the first person in her life who openly liked Dean. Her father took over two years to fully warm up to him, her mother didn't meet him for a year, Oliver and Sara don't like him, and other than Joanna, none of Laurel's other friends (colleagues; she doesn't have friends) have ever understood why a woman like Laurel chose to be with a guy like Dean. Tommy was different. Tommy met Dean before Oliver came home, when he was still trying to fill a space. Dean was never going to replace Oliver, of course, but when Tommy made an obscure pop culture reference that only Dean understood it was the beginning of a...really weird and kind of dorky friendship.

Tommy lost Dean, too.

Laurel closes her eyes.

She doesn't know exactly what went down. She wasn't there. She didn't see it. But when she closes her eyes, she sees the blood. She sees the blade; sees it sink into his body. She imagines what the look in his eyes must have been like. There would have been pain and there would have been surprise and fear, but... There also would have been relief.

It's Dean.

All he wanted was to rest.

In her head, she can hear him say it, ''It's better this way.''

She was never going to be enough to make him stay. She has never been enough to make any of them stay.

Her stomach lurches. She pushes herself up over the toilet quickly with a moan.

''Shit. _Hey_,'' Tommy's voice lowers into this comforting lilt. ''I gotcha.'' His hands pull her hair away from her face and his hand moves to her back, rubbing it in soft circles.

She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, knuckles turning white. After a minute, she sits back on her knees. ''Okay,'' she says. ''It's okay. False alarm.''

He is staring at her worriedly. ''Laurel,'' his hand is still on her back. ''When's the last time you slept?''

She snorts. ''I don't know. What day is it?''

He looks mildly horrified. ''_Laurel_.''

''I know,'' she groans, and covers her face with her hands. ''I know, okay?''

They don't move. They sit there on the floor for what feels like forever. Until she hears it again in her head, his voice, clear as day.

_''I'm poison, Laurel. What have I ever done for you that's good?''_

Her stomach jolts again. She clenches her fists and breathes slowly but doesn't move, doing her best to will it away. There's nothing left in her. She just needs to sleep.

_''Hey, pretty bird... My girl...'' _

_''You ever think maybe you would be better off? You ever think maybe everyone would be better off?'' _

_''Tell Laurel...'' ''Listen, Laur... Laurel... Baby, you know that I...'' _

_''Tell her, tell her, tell her...'' _

_''Uh, you know what? Never mind. I'll call you back, okay? I promise.'' _

_''It's better this way.''_

Goodbye.

That asshole was going to say _goodbye_ to her.

There's a flood behind her eyes that she can't let out or she'll drown. She closes her eyes. All she can see is blood. Her eyes snap open and she scrambles forward over the toilet and this time, something comes up. It's mostly just stomach acid and bile, but her body still spasms, stomach twisting terribly as it brings it up. Tommy dutifully holds her hair back for her and she thinks he might be saying something to her but she's not exactly in the right shape to try and concentrate on his voice. Vomiting brings no relief from the torturous nausea. Usually, you feel better after throwing up. This doesn't work like that. She still feels sick and tired. She is still retching and spitting into the toilet bowl when his phone begins to ring. And then keeps on ringing. ''Just answer it,'' she gets out, trying to catch her breath.

He hesitates, especially when she starts gagging again, but finally answers it when she pinches him. ''Oliver,'' he greets, rather roughly. ''Now is so not a good time.''

Laurel rubs her stomach and tries to think about something else. Anything else.

Tommy still has one hand holding her hair back and his body is pressed close to hers. So she can feel him tense. She can feel his body stiffen. His voice is tight when he says, demands, ''What?''

She reaches up to flush the toilet. When she pulls her hair away from him and turns, he is staring at her with round, stunned eyes and there is pity written all over his face. She already knows what he's going to say. ''Okay,'' he says, watching as she grabs a piece of toilet paper to wipe her mouth with and settles back against the wall to wait for the back news. ''Okay, I'll tell her. We'll be home as soon as possible. Just keep us updated.''

She steels herself for yet another devastating blow.

''Um,'' Tommy's voice is gentle and unsure, as if she is some wounded wild animal he is being forced to approach. ''Laurel, that was Oliver. It's - Something's happened. It's about your father.''

And the hits just keep on coming.

Somebody out there must really hate her.

.

.

.

Laurel doesn't want to leave Sam.

She doesn't totally trust Sam, if she's being honest.

This is different than the lingering animosity they have had for each other over the past however many months due to certain things that have transpired; something that has never really been discussed or dealt with, just buried underneath love and awkward, stilted conversations. This has nothing to do with anyone's feelings or anyone's attitude or anyone's overprotectiveness. This has everything to do with the fact that Laurel straight up does not trust Sam alone with Dean's body. She doesn't trust him not to do something stupid. She doesn't want to leave him alone. She _shouldn't_ leave him alone.

But it's her father.

What choice does she have?

Sam refuses to come with her and there isn't enough time to make the arrangements necessary to bring the body home with her. In theory, Tommy could stay behind and watch Sam, but there's no chance that he would be able to stop him from doing anything. She could handcuff him to a table or knock him out, but that's more something a Winchester would do and Laurel is not a Winchester. She just loves a Winchester. She has no idea where Cas is and, quite frankly, she's not sure she would trust him either. She barely trusts herself. The only thing that's stopping her from fixing this somehow is that Dean wouldn't want her to.

Laurel is completely out of options.

So she leaves.

She makes Sam promise not to do anything, not to try to bring Dean back, and she leaves.

While Tommy is making the flight arrangements, she goes into Dean's room one last time. He looks even worse than he did before. He's... The body... It's starting to... The skin is grayish now. She doesn't look at the face. She plucks the wallet off the bed where she left it. She takes the money and the credit cards out, places them on the nightstand, and then slips the picture of Sammy and the picture of her back into the wallet. She pauses, fingers hovering, and then she pulls a folded photograph out of her back pocket and slips it inside. She puts the wallet back in his pocket with some difficulty. Wherever he's going, whether it's in the ground or a hunter's funeral pyre, they should be with him. He would want that.

She takes a few items of clothing from his closet without really thinking about it. Mostly things that still smell like him or things she bought for him. She takes the picture of them that she didn't even know he kept on his bedside table, that one Zeppelin record with their song on it, and that pink iPod that Charlie got him and filled up with an odd mixture of sugary bubblegum pop, indie rock, and classic rock. _You need to expand your music taste_, Charlie had said when she slipped the iPod in his shirt pocket and kissed his cheek. _Don't be a dinosaur. Next time I'm here, I'll put some punk rock, hip hop and metal on there, okay?_ Charlie had laughed for three minutes straight when Laurel called her to tell her that she had caught Dean singing a Robyn song while washing the dishes.

Oh, god.

_Charlie. _

She doesn't know.

Someone will have to tell her when she gets back from Oz. If she gets back. And Garth. And Jody Mills. Krissy Chambers. Linda Tran, maybe. If she cares. Sonny. Thea. Laurel knows Thea and Dean had at least something of a bond for awhile, probably because Dean can't resist being a big brother and before Oliver came home, Thea was in desperate need of a big brother. It hasn't exactly been as strong this year as it once was, but it was strong enough for Dean to be very adamant that Roy Harper was not good enough for her, and it will be strong enough for Thea to feel that loss. Oh, and then there's Castiel. Jesus Christ, _Cas_. If he doesn't know already. How is she supposed to tell him his best friend is dead? He's going to be completely _devastated_. Her father doesn't know yet either. He cared about Dean, too. Maybe he didn't quite love Dean like the son he never had, but he was at least used to having him around.

She's probably the one who is going to have to make those phone calls. She rakes a hand through her greasy hair. How is this where her life has gone? How has any of this happened? Laurel glances down at the duffel bag she's hastily stuffed things into. His red and blue plaid flannel shirt is lying on top. Without a second thought, she pulls off her sweatshirt and replaces it with the flannel. It's not as warm as the sweatshirt, but it still smells like him. She's sure there will come a time where reminders of him will hurt - three weeks after the boat went down, she couldn't stand to even look at anything that reminded her of Sara and her old room in their parents' house was closed up and wasn't opened until long after her mother had left and her father moved into an apartment - but right now, it's comforting.

She lingers in the room for just a few minutes longer, unable to leave, and then she kisses his cold hand goodbye and walks out the door.

It's the last time she will ever see Dean.

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.

.

Or rather, it's the last time she will ever see Dean _human._

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They're driving when it happens.

They've been driving for about twenty five minutes on their way to the airport. She hasn't said a word since they left and Tommy keeps throwing her these concerned looks, opening and closing his mouth. He wants to say something but he doesn't know what to say. They're driving past trees, trees and more trees, and the sky overhead is an ugly gray. The wind howls against the car and the clouds roll in fast.

There's a storm coming.

It happens fast.

It comes out of nowhere and barrels into her at full force. There's a pull in her chest, a tugging in her gut, and an aching kind of need that pulsates through her whole body and surrounds her entirely. It's like a craving only stronger and she has no idea what it is that she's craving. It's not alcohol. Or pills. She knows what that kind of need feels like. It almost feels like something inside of her is burning, only instead of outright bursting into flames it just simmers. Whatever it is, it takes over every inch of her.

She squirms uncomfortably in her seat, trying to ignore the sweat breaking out on her forehead or the way things start to spin around her. Her entire body is buzzing with some sort of otherworldly concoction of pain, pleasure, need, grief, anger, and also the world's worst nausea.

It's... a panic attack? Maybe?

Either that or she has lost every bit of sanity left in her.

''Tommy,'' she's barely in control of her own voice. ''Tommy, pull over.''

He turns to look at her sharply. ''What? Why?''

''I need you to pull over.''

She must look as bad as she feels because Tommy pulls over without another word. She fumbles for the door handle and throws open the door before the car is even stopped. She unbuckles her seatbelt with hands that are shaking so badly they're nearly useless and goes sprawling out of the car, onto her hands and knees. Gravel cuts into the palms of her hands but she can barely feel the sting of the pain, still too focused on whatever is coursing through her right now. She can hear Tommy talking to her very faintly and then not at all, the beat of her heart and a strange rushing sound drowning out the sound of his voice.

She tries to vomit, dry heaving, body desperately attempting to get something _out_, but nothing comes up. There is sweat trickling down the back of her neck and she feels lightheaded. She feels like she has lost all control of her body. It is the most extreme case of physical and emotional need that she has ever felt, to the point where it's agonizing, only she has no idea what it is that she needs. Sleep, maybe? Food? Is this a low blood sugar thing? Or is it Dean? Is something telling her to go back?

All she knows is that she wants it to stop.

It _hurts._

And then, just like that, it stops.

She is left panting on the side of the road, just as the rain comes. Aside from a hollow and somewhat hungry feeling somewhere deep inside - and also the mind numbing grief - she feels fine. She doesn't know whether to blame this on grief, sleep deprivation, lack of food, nausea, or her poor emotional state. She has no idea if she can logically blame that on any of those things.

...She's going to anyway.

It was probably just an overflow of emotions. It was probably just a panic attack.

What else could it have been?

.

.

.

It's not that he wakes up.

It's _how_ he wakes up.

There is no gasp of air as old life returns to the body, as the heart starts beating, the blood starts pumping, and the lungs fill with air. The eyes snap open, a brand new endless black, and the fingers twitch around the blade that has been placed in the hands, but there is no gasp, no movement, no breath of life. Because there is no life.

There is still a dead body lying in the bed.

It's just _awake._

''You're going to be disoriented for awhile,'' a voice says. ''Give it a few minutes.''

The body in the bed does not know the name of the person talking to him, nor does he remember his own name. In the first few moments after awakening, he cannot remember anything. Not his name, where he was born, who he loves, who he hates, his mother's name, nothing. But he can see. He can see in ways he thinks - knows - he couldn't before. He can see everything.

It's horrifying.

Terror is the first thing that comes back to him. It's the first thing he's able to remember, the first emotion he feels, and it is something familiar. The terror feels like coming home. Whoever he was before, he must have been terrified all the time for it to be this familiar, for it to fit in his skin so seamlessly. The air is next. It slams into him like a gut punch. He gasps and wants to move but he can't. He gulps in as much as he possibly can, lungs filling with much needed oxygen, burning from lack of use. He can't get enough air. He keeps gasping and choking on it but it's never enough. Is this what drowning feels like? The heart starts slowly, and then gradually speeds up until it's pounding hard and fast in his chest, overcompensating after being still for so long. There's a name on his tongue when his voice comes back but he can't get it out around the choking. He doesn't recognize it anyway, not at first, but the names keep coming and coming, filling up his head and he can't put faces to them.

He can't move his arms, can't curl his fingers, can't even feel his legs. He's paralyzed. Stuck. Trapped in his own body. Something is wrong with him. Something happened. He doesn't know what has happened to him. He can't remember. It's right there. He can feel it. He just can't remember.

But he remembers a boy named Sam.

_(Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! _

_A boy in the backseat with his toy airplane, waiting for him. _

_A boy on a bus with his backpack, running away from him. _

_I see a light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't - I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it. _

_I believe in you, Dean. _

_No, Dean, I wouldn't. Same circumstances... I wouldn't. _

_You've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad. But you're not. _

_A boy dying in the dirt. _

_A boy dying in a hospital bed. _

_Most important? _

_Watch out for Sammy.)_

A woman named Laurel.

_(Excuse me, are you Dinah Laurel Lance? _

_Um, yes. Yes, hi. I actually just go by Laurel, though. Laurel Lance. And you are?_

_She's wearing a blue dress and twirling for him. _

_There's a flash of white teeth, dimples, eyes that shine, soft hands and an 'I love you'. _

_I get tired of you leaving. I feel like there's more leaving than coming home. _

_Her lips were soft, always soft, and she tasted like cherries. _

_Well, I'm here. You've got me. You've always got me. _

_Are you sure you can't stay a little while longer? _

_Honey, I really can't talk right now. I'll call you as soon as I can, okay? _

_Hey, pretty bird.)_

An angel named Cas.

_(Good things do happen. _

_We're making it up as we go._

_A blinding white light and the shadow of huge, unearthly wings. _

_You don't think you deserve to be saved. _

_There's an explosion, a splash of water. A trench coat floating in the water. _

_Nobody cares that you're broken! _

_You can't save everyone, my friend. Though you try. _

_You're just a man. I'm an angel. _

_What a brave little ant you are. _

_Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?)_

He thinks he loved them. He _knows_ he did. His name comes last, this faint little whisper from somewhere inside of him.

His name is Dean.

He moves.

Dean lurches off the bed with a strangled, guttural sound that comes from deep in his throat, and he goes down hard on his hands and knees. His body feels wrong, like it's caught somewhere between stiff and limp. He can't make it work the way it should. He's cold, too. So cold he's shivering. His hands feel like ice. This isn't right. None of this is right. There's a hospital bracelet on the floor. He's in his room, he notes, while his body is busy shuddering, trying to get used to breathing again. This is not where it happened. This is not where he died. He remembers now.

Dean Winchester. His name is Dean Winchester. He has a brother named Sam, a friend named Cas, and he has been in love with Laurel Lance for over five years, going on six. He even remembers when their anniversary is. His mother's name was Mary. His father's name was John. His life has ended. He remembers that. He remembers death. He remembers pain. There was no numbness. There was no peace. There was only pain and blood and he couldn't get all the words out, no matter how hard he tried. And then it was over.

And there was a house.

It was dark, and there were no stars. There was no moon either. Just the porch lights from the house in front of him. It was comforting. The porch lights. They felt like coming home. He felt warm there. His mother was inside the house. She was waiting for him.

She was very beautiful.

He wanted to go inside. He wanted to see her, to feel her, to wrap her up and never let her go. She was waiting for him, he _had_ to be there. Why wouldn't he go inside? Why couldn't he open the door? He was done. He was finished. He wanted to rest. He wanted to go home to her.

He had been ready.

Why is he still here?

He looks around the room wildly, panicked, searching for the picture of her that he knows is here somewhere, just to see her. But it's not on the desk where it usually is and he can't find her face. Every part of this is excruciating. The air returning to his lungs, his heart banging loudly in his chest; gasping and choking and clawing at the carpet like an animal while the blood pumps and the brain tries to catch up. Being alive is excruciating. Every movement feels like torture, breathing is painful and it's worthless, and he doesn't understand why this is happening. Did Sam do this? Did Laurel? No. No, they couldn't have. They don't have the power to do _this._

The anger that begins to soak into every inch of him feels different than it once did. Stronger. There is rage and sick, twisted little impulses finding a home in his body, burrowing into his head and his heart like they think they can fool him into believing that they have always been there, a part of him, just waiting to be released. There's a blade in his hand that wants him to do bad things, to be bad, to be someone else, and every second is a struggle to not give in, to not want these things.

He can't pretend to be the same Dean he once was, he knows this. He _tries._ That Dean is dead and gone, a rotting memory, and this is all that's left. He knows, you see. He knows the second he opens his eyes. He can feel it in his blood, in the way his heart beats differently, the way he breathes, the way his hands curl into fits. It's in the way he sees things now; how everything is dull and bright all at the same time and how it is all harsh and confusing and loud.

He's not human.

Not anymore.

''Welcome to the world, kiddo,'' a smooth, accented voice says from the other side of the room. ''Isn't this so much better?''

Dean's head snaps up and he looks at the source of the voice.

_Crowley._

He's grinning. He looks like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just unwrapped the biggest present under the tree and it's everything he ever wanted and batteries too.

Dean's black, expressionless dead eyes don't give anything away but the way his lips curl back into a snarl and the furious growl that erupts from his chest seem to give Crowley an idea of what's about to happen because he takes a step back. There is a brief flash of an out of place emotion that skitters across his face for half a second. It's fear. Crowley is _afraid_ of him.

He should be.

Dean is faster than Crowley. He's across the room in three strides, grabbing onto Crowley's jacket and slamming him back against the wall hard. Something cracks.

Crowley is laughing. ''Oh, the places you'll go,'' he hums out. ''Look at this.'' He meets Dean's eyes. ''A blank canvas. Ready for a masterpiece. You know,'' he offers him a toothy smile. ''The one good thing your father ever did was shape you into a mindless soldier. You've always been a wonderfully obedient puppy. I wonder what you'll be like now. I'd very much like to see it. Tell me, soldier,'' his voice drops down to a low murmur. ''Would you like an order?''

Dean cocks his head to the side and stares at Crowley, blank. Emotionless. Before Crowley has a chance to give another smarmy speech, Dean's hand has wrapped around his throat. He lifts Crowley off the ground with one hand, squeezing, nails digging into his skin until he draws blood. He holds his other hand out, twitches his fingers, and the blade - the one that is part of him now - sails into his outstretched hand, where it belongs. He presses the tip of it right above Crowley's heart, ready to slam it down. ''You think you can make me a monster?'' They're the first words he's spoken and they come out in a barely audible rasp. He doesn't sound like himself. As he speaks, the black slowly drains from his eyes, for now, leaving behind tired green eyes that are probably not nearly as intimidating as he wants them to be. ''You think I'm going to let you do this to me?''

Crowley chokes out a cruel laugh. ''You think_ I_ did this to you? I didn't do anything to you, you foolish coward. You did this to yourself,'' he spits out. ''You did all of this because you hated yourself and you wanted to die. Well, congratulations, Dean. You're dead. You just didn't think about what would happen after, did you?'' Another laugh. ''Can't even kill yourself right, can you? But that's all right. This is going to be so much better. You're going to love this,'' he gasps out. ''Good men make the best monsters.''

Despite the fact that every fiber of his being is telling him to end this, Dean - or the thing that used to be Dean - lets Crowley go. Just drops him right at his feet and clenches his jaw, waiting. There is blood on his fingers and it feels warm and wet and _good._ He clutches the blade tighter as Crowley rises to his feet, body poised to attack.

''Oh, Dean,'' Crowley shakes his head. ''Dean, Dean, Dean. We're going to have so much fun together,'' he says, smoothing down his coat. ''Trust me on that.''

''We?'' Dean sneers. He points the blade at him. ''Crowley, I may be a demon, but I am not _yours_.''

''I beg to differ actually,'' is the pleasant conversational response. ''You're going to be my best. My greatest weapon. My good boy.'' There's a disconcerting twinkle to his eyes. ''Every king needs a faithful knight, after all.''

''Why would I do that? Why would I ever - ''

''Simple, really.'' Crowley takes a seat in the chair next to the bed and crosses one leg over the other. ''I have something you don't.''

''And what's that?''

With a pause clearly meant for dramatic effect, Crowley produces something from his pocket. As soon as Dean sees it, the bottom drops out and the air around him thins. No. Not her. Anyone but her. Crowley hums thoughtfully and licks his lips, staring at the object in his hands. He looks up at Dean's defeated, still quite pale face, watching as his eyes, hungry and hollow, follow his every movement, even as he tucks the item away. ''What I have,'' he practically purrs out, ''is leverage.''

.

.

.

We say jellyfish  
>have no hearts.<p>

We say we do.

Jesus said, ''Forgive them, Father  
>For they do not know what they are doing.''<p>

Is that true?  
>Do we not know what we have done?<p>

ANDREA GIBSON | ACTIVIST

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**end chapter one**

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><p><strong>AN: Holy moly, I can't believe I finally have the first chapter posted.<strong>

**The posting schedule for this fic (yes, it even has a posting schedule) is going to be every other Friday. Like I mentioned, I have several chapters already written but they need to be edited.**

**One more thing that I have to mention: Demon!Dean is, obviously, going to be slightly different from the Demon!Dean that appeared in canon because this fic was started before season ten. And Crowley is actually going to be a competent villain, not the pathetic lovelorn waste of a character he is in canon these days.**

**OKAY! Phew! *wipes sweat away* I think that's it.**

**Also, HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Halloween has always been my favourite holiday but unfortunately, I'm sick this year. So I hope you all enjoy it for me. :)**


	2. ALL THIS LOSS

_AN: Happy Friday, friends! Hope you all have a lovely weekend!_

_Additional warnings: This is a rough chapter, folks. I've been writing serious angst for years now and I think this might be the most intense grief I've ever written. I don't know how that happened, but... Beware. Tissues and chocolate may be needed. It is also INCREDIBLY LONG. I don't know how that happened either._

* * *

><p><strong>the lovers left broken<strong>

_Written by Becks Rylynn_

* * *

><p>.<p>

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**Chapter Two**

_ALL THIS LOSS_

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You stand red-handed.  
>You want to wash yourself<br>in earth, in rocks and grass

What are you supposed to do  
>with all this loss?<p>

MARGARET ATWOOD | DOWN

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.

So she has this picture of him.

It was taken during his last trip home. She was already in bed when he came home; curled up under the covers in her pajamas with her glasses on, laptop open in her lap, still working. She had gotten home from work at eight, changed her clothes, made herself a cup of tea, and kept working, barely stopping long enough to move from the living room to the bed. It was just past eleven when he came home, dropping his bag just inside the bedroom door, and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek and a tired mumble of, ''hey, babe'' before heading into the bathroom to take a shower. It was only after he got out of the shower, padded into the kitchen wearing only his boxers and called out a, ''Is there any food in the house that isn't leftover takeout?'' that she realized she hadn't eaten dinner and had actually barely eaten all day long.

They wound up at the 24 hour grocery store down the street at a quarter to midnight, standing under the fluorescent lights with dark circles under their eyes, alternating between conversing and yawning while they shopped for food. Well, while Dean shopped for food. Laurel mostly played Flappy Bird and snuck random things in the cart. She had many strengths but she had to admit grocery shopping was not one of them. Especially not Dean's version of grocery shopping. He was a little drill sergeant when it came to grocery shopping. Probably because he hated it. He got in and out as soon as possible with no dawdling. And he always had a list. She never had a list - usually because she forgot it - and always wound up forgetting what she needed, wandering around aimlessly hoping it would come to her, grabbing random things and only remembering the milk when she was on her way home.

That night, because it was late and they were both tired and hungry, she had let him do it his way.

Until they got to the cereal aisle.

''Oooh,'' she looked up from her phone briefly. ''Don't forget to grab Cocoa Puffs.''

He had glanced back at her from where he was busy studying the differences in prices between the name brand cheerios and the knock off brand. ''Ugh,'' he wrinkled his nose. ''How can you eat that shit?'' He asked, but grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs (name brand - the good stuff) anyway.

''It's delicious,'' she shrugged.

''It's pure sugar and made for six year olds.''

''I like it.'' Without looking up from her game, she picked up a box of Lucky Charms, studiously ignoring the way he rolled his eyes. ''Cereal is an important staple, Dean.''

''So why can't you get Cheerios?''

''I hate Cheerios.''

''Who the fuck hates Cheerios? Is that even a thing?''

''They're boring.''

''Why does your food need to be exciting?''

''Cereal is a breakfast food,'' she grabbed a box of Cap'n Crunch. ''It needs to wake you up in the mornings.''

He had shot her this adorably ruffled look, complete with a crinkled nose and furrowed brow as he pushed the cart down the aisle slowly. ''Laur, why are you being Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby over cereal?''

''I don't know,'' she laughed, grabbing the back of his neck and leaning in to nuzzle his neck briefly. ''Why are you being Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby?''

''You don't even eat cereal in the mornings,'' he pointed out. ''You drink coffee, forget to eat breakfast, and eat cereal in the middle of the night. Or after sex. You always eat cereal after sex. What's that about?''

''Not _always_,'' she sighed, tossing another box in the cart.

''How many boxes are you going to - ''

''I'm trying to put on weight, Dean,'' she snapped. ''Remember?''

''Are you also trying to give yourself diabetes?''

''Really? You, _of all people_, are going to try the 'eat healthier' thing? Honey, I once saw you eat three cheeseburgers in one sitting.''

''That doesn't count! That was right after I got back from Purgatory! I was _famished_ after Purgatory! I hadn't eaten in a year.'' He paused, like he was just realizing how that literally made zero sense, and then he gave up his attempts to put the Lucky Charms back on the shelf. ''I think Purgatory was weird.''

Her response, mumbled and tired but still somehow indignant, had been, ''Your_ face_ is weird.''

There was this short moment of silence and then he started laughing. Really laughing. Not just a tired chuckle or a short bark of something that sounded fake or bitter. This was real laughter that came from deep inside his gut, rich and warm. When she had looked up from her phone, there was this huge smile on his face. It was such a rare and beautiful sight to see him laugh like that. She hadn't been able to help herself. Lips curling back into a grin of her own, she pointed her phone at him and snapped a picture. It's been the background on her phone ever since.

The picture is a little blurry and there's a glare from the brightness of the lights in the store. He looks tired, exhausted, especially around the eyes, but he's smiling this wide, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle and shows off his teeth. In the picture, he looks so close to being content and relaxed that he almost looks like a normal guy. One who doesn't have to worry about saving the world once a year. No weight on his shoulders, no crippling depression or PTSD, no drinking problem. Just a man. He looks happy.

Laurel loves this picture.

The first time she sees it, after, is in the airport. Tommy's on the phone with the car service and Laurel has to phone Oliver to let him know that they arrived safely and they're on their way to the hospital. Her lock screen is a picture of her and Sara making stupid faces, taken just a couple of weeks ago, and there's this brief, dull stab of _'I really wish she_ _was here'_ pain. But when she gets to the home screen... She stares at the picture, lips parted, mesmerized by the sight of him happy and so alive, until the phone times out.

.

.

.

All Laurel was told about her father's condition was that there had been some complications and she needed to get back to Starling right away.

In the car, on the way to the hospital, Oliver and her mother tell her over speakerphone that he had a blood clot dislodge and it started to make its way to his lungs, which is not uncommon after major surgery, but it is serious. They also tell her that the doctors were great. They caught it quickly and they intervened.

''He's going to be fine,'' her mother says. ''He's going to be just fine.''

She doesn't cry. She doesn't start weeping tears of joy and relief, but she can't speak either. There's a rock in her throat and her lips are moving, but she can't get any words out. In the silence, Tommy wraps his arms around her and she squeezes her eyes shut, listening to the sound of her mother's breathing on the phone.

Nobody says a word about Dean.

It is only when she steps off the elevator in the hospital and sees her mother's red, watery eyes that the loss is even acknowledged.

Laurel hasn't been extremely close with her mother since Sara died. There is hurt there that cannot be fixed with the occasional check in call or warm hug. Dinah Lance is not a constant in her daughter's life. She hasn't been for a long time. That's just the way it is now. Laurel thinks that her mother will always be in her life and they'll always have some sort of relationship, but it will never be like it was before, when she could spend hours with her mother just talking. Some things can be forgiven but they can never be forgotten. When Sara ''died'' and left her life and her family behind, it was because she didn't have a choice. Sure, she wound up there because of the selfish and naive choices she had previously made, but she never chose to leave her family.

_Dinah_ did.

She _chose_ to abandon her remaining family - her husband, her surviving daughter, her elderly mother in the nursing home - and start fresh somewhere else, putting her life - putting Laurel - in the past. She gave up being a mother when Sara went away. It was like Laurel didn't even matter. It hurt. It still hurts.

Still, sometimes, despite the hurt and the bad blood, you just need your mom.

As soon as the elevator doors open and Laurel sees her mother standing there, clearly in the know about Dean's death, she feels like a kid again. Her mother opens her arms and she is a helpless four year old, sick with the flu, too hot and too cold, coughing and aching and all she wants is her mommy. Laurel practically collapses into her mother's arms, falling apart at the seams the second she is wrapped in the familiar embrace. She doesn't cry. She's too numb to cry. But she leans on her mother like she can barely stand, holding onto her so tightly she's almost afraid she's hurting her. She is tired. She is so tired.

Her mother just holds her tight, strokes her hair and whispers, ''I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm so sorry'' over and over.

.

.

.

Laurel is right where she should be, by her father's side, when he wakes up.

He's groggy, still doped up on meds, but it's the first time she's seen his eyes in two days and it feels so good. ''Hey,'' his voice is weak and raspy, but there's so much feeling behind it that her breath catches. His hand closes around hers.

She smiles shakily and takes his hand in both of hers. ''Hi, Daddy,'' she whispers. ''How do you feel?''

''I've had better days,'' he croaks out, ''but pain is a part of life.''

Laurel swallows hard and does her best to keep her composure and not let her smile falter.

''You gave us quite a scare, Quentin,'' her mother says, holding a cup of water to his lips, smoothing his hair tenderly.

''Maybe I just wanted to see you,'' he tells her.

Laurel forces out a weak laugh. ''Still a charmer, even on drugs.''

''The plus side,'' he says, ''is that I've cheated death - again. It seems to run in the family. Even the extended family.''

The smile drops off her face and she watches as her mother's hand ceases movement.

Even drugged to the gills, it doesn't take him long to notice that something is horribly wrong. ''What?'' He asks. ''Laurel, what's wrong?''

''Um,'' she clears her throat. ''Dad, there's...'' She's not sure she trusts herself to speak.

''There's something we need to tell you, Quentin,'' her mother says, taking over for her when she can't go on. ''About... About Dean.''

.

.

.

Laurel steps into her quiet, empty apartment and lets out a breath she has been holding for God knows how long. Her entire body is sore from a bone deep exhaustion and her brain is working so slowly that she almost forgot to get off the elevator on her floor. She drops her bag by the door and steps further into her place. The apartment is dark and the moonlight outside is casting strange shadows on the walls. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, wrapping her arms around her middle and inhaling the familiar scent of home. Her home - their home - has always smelled warm. She doesn't know how to describe it other than to say it smells warm. Lavender scented candles, fresh laundry, just a hint of baked goods, and, for awhile there, it was almost impossible to miss the slight smell of wine and whiskey that permeated the air. The apartment smells like Laurel and it smells like Dean. It smells like home.

The familiarity is anything but comforting to her tonight. It makes something crumble inside of her. Just knowing that someday, his scent will disappear, just another trace of him that's gone.

She opens her eyes.

She's been through this before, you know. When he was trapped in Purgatory. He had disappeared without a trace. The assumption had been - from the beginning - that he had died. Sam didn't even try. He had just...accepted the loss. But Laurel hadn't been able to do that. Hadn't been able to deal with yet another person vanishing from her life without a trace. If she was going to bury another coffin, it wasn't going to be empty. For a year, she never gave up hope. Even when his scent faded from his pillow, when she momentarily forgot the sound of his voice, what his hands felt like on her body, she never stopped believing he would come back and she never stopped trying to bring him home.

She immersed herself in his world, going to psychics and mediums, mythology professors, witches, even went to a crossroads demon once, which was a terrible mistake. She learned things she was never supposed to learn. She _never_ lost hope.

And, in the end, he came home.

It took a year, and it was a bad year, but he came home.

One night, she came home from CNRI, and he was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, like he had never left. The only indication that something wasn't normal was the way his voice shook when he greeted her with a murmur of, ''Hey, baby.''

He won't come home this time. They don't get another chance. They've used up all their miracles, all their lifelines. This is it. This is how their story ends. If she could rewrite it... But she can't. She's stuck here, in this new world, in the apartment they shared, without him. Their story is over. It ended bloody and brutally, without warning, like she had always been afraid it would, and she can't change that. Nothing can. Now she just has to find some way to live in a world where he does not exist anymore.

.

.

.

In the bathroom, Laurel studies her ghastly appearance.

She looks dreadful. Her eyes are puffy, red rimmed and bloodshot, with deep circles under them. Her skin is sallow and sickly looking. Her hair is stringy and greasy and it feels disgusting when she pulls it out of the ponytail it's in. She looks more corpse-like than Dean, which is a morbid thought that makes her grimace. Physically, she feels...broken. She feels weak and tired and shaky, unsteady on her feet. Her head is throbbing from all the crying she's done and her stomach is churning. Emotionally, she feels...

Well.

Like she's dying.

She turns the shower on as hot as it will go, strips off her clothes and steps inside. She washes her hair three times, until she starts to feel a little bit more like a human being, and then she scrubs at her skin until it is pink, soft and raw, like it is a brand new skin.

She tries not to think about anything but getting clean, but it doesn't work. She is extremely tired and extremely out of it, and she winds up thinking, for a brief moment, about how if this is a new skin, then she has washed away all of the skin that Dean has touched or kissed, and he will never touch this new skin. It's a ludicrous thought, but it nearly sends her into hysterics. The only reason it doesn't is because she's simply too tired for hysterics right now.

A year ago - almost exactly a year ago - right after the earthquake, when she was still a shaky mess, so fragile she could have shattered if the wind blew, more shell shocked than anything else, Dean climbed into the shower with her and helped her wash away the grime, the soot and the blood, the ashes of life before the earthquake. It was probably the gentlest his hands had ever been.

Contrary to people's immediate judgments upon first seeing him, Dean is actually an incredibly gentle person. ..._Was._ He _was_ an incredibly gentle person. But that night was different. It was like he was terrified of breaking her, as if he was genuinely worried about her cracking and falling apart while he was washing her hair for her. That won't ever happen again.

She'll miss that.

That gentleness.

Nobody had ever been that gentle with her before. Nobody had ever been that concerned with keeping her whole and unbroken. Every other person in her life - boyfriends, family, friends, whatever - had always been more worried about themselves. If she broke into pieces, it was her problem, not theirs. She could handle it on her own. She doesn't think it was necessarily something malicious. Everyone else just saw her as this strong, unbreakable goddess. Everyone had such a skewed view of her. To them she was perfect. Too strong to break. Too high up to hit the ground. They don't think of her like that anymore. After this past year, she's not sure anyone will ever see her as strong again.

Dean was never like that. He knew she had flaws, he knew sometimes she needed to let herself be vulnerable, and he knew that, despite her outward strength, she was breakable. He never treated her like she was a weak porcelain doll or anything but at the same time, he made sure he never stepped on her to get where he was going. He treated her like she was worth something. It had been something new to her. She remembers it had startled her at first. Not the fact that he was doing it, but the fact that being treated well was something new for her. It was how she knew - she _knew_ - that he was it for her.

And now he's gone.

And yes, she is stunned. She is shell shocked and grief stricken and no, it doesn't feel real. It seems like every five seconds the same thought rushes through her head: _this can't_ _be happening, this can't be real._ But, at the same time, somewhere in the back of her mind, she is not all that surprised. There is a part of her that always knew it would end this way. For almost their entire relationship, she has lived in fear. Every time he was away from her, she would be one horrible thought away from a panic attack. If he didn't call at the time they set, she couldn't sleep, but every time the phone rang, she would be petrified that it would be a blubbering, devastated Sam or a stoic, apologetic police officer. For over five years, she has worried more about his life than her own because for over five years, she has had this sinking feeling in her stomach. This feeling that no matter what they did, no matter how hard they tried, they were never going to grow old together. She tried to combat the feeling with the selfish, rather childish thought of, _well, then I'll just make sure I go first._

Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way.

Nothing gold can stay. She knows that. He was nothing if not gold.

After her shower, still wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she makes a half hearted attempt to choke down some dry toast and a glass of water and then she wraps herself up in Dean's shirt and crawls into bed, hair still wet. She doesn't expect to be able to sleep.

She's asleep the moment her head hits the pillow.

.

.

.

She wakes to a strange sound in the darkness.

It sounds like fluttering.

She forces her heavy eyelids open and rolls over to give the darkened bedroom a quick scan. Sure enough, there is a figure hovering by the end of the bed, silhouetted by the shadows. She jerks, bolting upright with a startled gasp.

''Laurel.'' He steps into the thin strip of moonlight, illuminating his sorrow filled face.

She lets out a breath and closes her eyes, one hand over her racing heart. ''Castiel.''

He doesn't say anything. Just stands there in the moonlight, eyes downcast, lips pressed together. For a long, painful moment, there is only silence. Frozen under the covers, barely able to force herself to breathe through the pain that suddenly slams into her when her sleep addled brain remembers that Dean is gone, she doesn't offer him anything. She doesn't bother to ask him if he knows about Dean because it's abundantly clear just from the look on his face that he does. She doesn't ask if he's okay, she doesn't ask if he's been to see Sam, she doesn't move to comfort him, and she doesn't dare ask him the question that pops into her head as soon as she sees him.

_What do you think of humanity now?_

Throat aching, she yanks back the covers and rushes over to him, pulling him into a hug before he can protest. It takes him a moment to wrap his arms around her but when he does he practically melts into her, burying his face in her hair and releasing a shaky breath. Something about it reminds her of Dean. ''I didn't mean to wake you up,'' he finally says into her hair.

Laurel smiles through the tears in her eyes and a small, trembling laugh forces its way out of her throat before she can stop it. ''That's okay.'' A few tears dribble down her cheeks and she quickly draws away from him to swipe at them with the back of her hand. She sniffles, trying to regain at least a facade of composure. ''I'm really glad you're here,'' she tells him softly. ''He...'' She smiles again, this watery, unconvincing smile, and brings her hand to his cheek. The warmth of her palm against his cheek in such a gentle manner seems to surprise him. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. ''He would be so glad to know you're okay.'' At that, Castiel grimaces. He draws away from her hand and takes a step back. She frowns. He turns, staring down at the floor so she can only see his profile. She takes a step towards him and then stops. ''You are, aren't you?'' There's a clench of dread in her chest. ''You're okay?''

''I'm an angel,'' he says firmly, like that's an answer. It's not as convincing as it should be. Even he doesn't sound convinced. ''I'm sorry,'' he says. He looks up at her, all gigantic, sorrowful eyes. ''I'm sorry I couldn't save him.''

Her frown deepens. ''Cas,'' she says.

He shakes his head. ''If I had been with him - ''

''Castiel.'' She reaches out to grasp his arm, pulling him down onto the edge of the bed where she perches herself. She understands this, she really does. This desperate need to assign blame for a tragedy. Usually on yourself. She's been here before. Several times, actually. It never ends well. ''This is not your fault,'' she tells him. ''If you had been there, there's a good chance you would be dead, too. And you know that.''

There's a sharp intake of breath, a long pause, and then he looks at her. It's that familiar searching gaze that makes her squirm uncomfortably. ''How are you?''

She draws in a deep breath. She looks away from him. How is she supposed to answer that? ''I'm tired,'' she mumbles. Her focus moves to the picture frames on the dresser. In between the picture of her and Sara from when they were kids wearing matching pajamas on Christmas morning, Sara missing a front tooth, Laurel's bed head out of control, and the old black and white picture of her maternal grandparents' wedding day, is a picture of her and Dean.

It was taken at a backyard barbeque at Joanna's parents' house. It's funny. That barbeque was years ago and yet she can remember almost every single detail of it. Funny how we latch onto certain memories. It was a birthday party for Jo. Her younger sister, Lucy, had just gotten engaged to her longtime girlfriend and Laurel spent most of the party talking about wedding plans and dodging questions about when she and Dean were going to get married. Dean had been in town for the week and when Laurel had brought up the barbeque, instead of making an excuse to leave town early, he had said, ''Sure, why not?''

She remembers that the most awkward part of the night had been the drive there. She sat in the backseat, listening to her father - who was still not quite on Team Dean, although he was softening towards him - critique her boyfriend's driving abilities. They showed up late with a bottle of wine, a six pack of beer, and her father's homemade potato salad, and when Jo, already a little tipsy, had shrieked out an excited greeting and all eyes had turned towards them, Dean blanched and practically glued himself to Laurel's side. For the first twenty minutes, he barely left her side, arm thrown around her waist or over her shoulder, trying to look casual rather than tense and nervous. It had been Jo's older brother Danny who finally coaxed Dean into actual friendly, civilized conversation.

After that, once he loosened up, he did great. He charmed pretty much all of Jo's family and Danny's four year old son wound up clinging to him. It wasn't surprising to her at all. Dean could get along with anyone when he made an effort to be something other than Jack Lemmon in Grumpy Old Men and he had always been good with kids. But it was the first time her father had seen that side of Dean and it was the first time he looked at him like maybe he wouldn't be the worst son-in-law to have.

He laughed that night, had lively conversations with people, and his usually tense body was relaxed. She's still not sure if it was an act or what, something he was doing for her, but because of that night not only did her father finally decide to give their relationship his blessing (not that she needed it, but it was nice to not have to keep cutting off her father's not-so-subtle insults anymore) but it led to a genuine friendship between Dean and Danny that lasted right up until Danny's death last year.

It was one of the times where they weren't Dean Winchester: Righteous Man, Infamous Hunter, Soldier with Crippling PTSD/Alcoholism/Depression (and various other anxiety disorders) and Laurel Lance: Oliver Queen's clueless girlfriend, you know, the one he cheated on all the time, The Sister of that Girl Who Died, Motherless Daughter. They were just Dean and Laurel: Perfectly Normal Couple. It wasn't something that happened very often.

It's why this picture of them is one of her favourites. In the picture, her hair is wet from when Jo's boyfriend had pulled her and Jo into the pool and her makeup has been mostly wiped away. Dean is wearing sunglasses, even though the sun is setting in the background, and he's wearing that nice button down shirt that she had gotten him. Their heads are tilted together and their smiles are soft. Peaceful, even. They look content. They look happy. They _were_ happy.

That was the thing about their relationship. No matter how bad things got - and things got pretty damn bad - they could always make each other happy. He could always make her laugh, no matter how shitty she felt, and she could always make him smile with those cute little eye crinkles of his, no matter how bad his self-loathing was.

Laurel releases a shaky breath and looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. ''I'm so tired,'' she mumbles, which - she _is._ She is so tired of it all. She's tired of losing people, she's tired of the constant grieving and the seemingly unending unbearable pain that just keeps being piled onto her and her family, she's tired of having everything and everyone taken away, and she is...so tired of being without him.

''You should rest,'' Castiel says, even though she's certain he knows exactly what she meant.

She nods. ''Yeah,'' she whispers, and keeps staring at her hands. There's an odd moment, while she's staring down at her bare ring finger, where she deeply regrets not pushing the marriage issue more. Marriage was always one of those things. It was like buying a house. Or having kids. Or vacations. They talked about it frequently, but never acted on it, because they were busy and because they figured there would be more time. She's not sure why it matters now. It's not like it would give her something more to hold onto. It's not like it would make him any less dead.

She squeezes her eyes shut and wraps her arms around her stomach.

This is excruciating. What the hell is she supposed to do now? What is she supposed to do with all of this loss?

''You know,'' she raises her head. ''He was always leaving.'' There's a beat of silence after her admission and when she looks over at Castiel, she expects him to be looking at her in confusion, brows furrowed, lips pursed, like he's worried she's losing it. But he only appears to be mildly contemplative. ''It seemed like we spent more time apart than we did together,'' she continues. ''He was always walking out the door, off to save the world.'' She shrugs. ''And I was always here, in a bed that's too big, lonely, and pretending like I wasn't waiting for him. I got so sick of it. But do you know what I never got sick of?''

''What?''

''When he would come home.'' She smiles faintly. ''It was like... As soon as he walked in the door, everything was right again. Like the world had been off balance while he was gone and I hadn't even realized it until he came home and everything suddenly felt better. Does that sound cheesy?''

''No,'' Castiel responds, very quietly. ''I think it sounds like love.''

''Have you seen Sam?'' She changes the subject quickly, inhaling sharply and closing her eyes momentarily, until she can be sure she won't cry. When she opens them again and looks at Castiel, he is not looking at her, grimacing and staring at the carpet.

''I have,'' he says.

''How is he?''

''He's been better,'' is the careful, tight voiced answer she gets.

''I know,'' she sighs. ''I...'' She rakes a hand through her hair. ''I know. I didn't want to leave him. I thought - I don't want him to be alone, but my father...'' She stops and shakes her head. ''I'm going back to Kansas as soon as I can. I just need - ''

''No.'' His voice leaves no room for argument.

She's going to argue anyway. ''No? What do you - ''

''You can't go back to Kansas.''

''What? Why not?''

He rises to his feet, back to her. His entire demeanor has changed. His back has stiffened and his hands have curled into fists. He has gone from trusted friend to strictly professional instantly. ''That's why I'm here.'' He turns to face her. ''I've spoken to Sam and we both agree that it's best if you stay here.''

Laurel clenches her teeth. She folds her arms across her chest and does her best to remain calm. ''Oh,'' her voice is ice. ''You've both agreed on that, huh? I don't get a say?''

''Your father needs you, Laurel,'' he says. A red hot burst of anger courses through her. Just how long is this going to go on? How long is she supposed to pretend that the men in her life and their chauvinistic, archaic behavior doesn't make her want to scream? He is actually trying to use her father to guilt her into taking orders. It shouldn't surprise her that he could stoop this low. We all do questionable things when we're desperate. Castiel is quite obviously desperate. It's clear he's trying, but he can't quite hide the manic look in his eyes. She's never actually seen that look in Castiel's eyes before. It's...worrying. ''Your family needs you,'' he tells her.

''You _are_ my family,'' she snaps. ''You and Sam. We're supposed to get through this together. That's what family does. Don't you think Dean would want that?''

''I think Dean would want to be alive,'' he responds, coldly.

That's it. That's what does it. Just eight little words that she wants so badly to believe, to cling to, but she can't. She knows too much to believe that. She's seen too much. She's the one who had a first row seat to Dean's slow death. She may not have been there when it all stopped, but she watched the suffering. She stares up at Cas silently, head tilted to the side and then she says, in an eerily calm voice, ''Except that's not exactly true, is it?''

A vaguely horrified look crosses his face and his lips part, like he wants to say something but he's too shocked to speak. When she stands, his body twitches like he wants to step away from her but he doesn't move. He squares his jaw and he lets her come.

''You love Dean,'' she says. ''I know that.'' She pauses to swallow the lump in her throat and take a breath. ''And I know you lost him too. And I know it hurts.'' She narrows her eyes at him and takes a step towards him. ''But don't pretend you knew him because you didn't. You didn't know who he was at the end, because you weren't there. You knew a memory.'' She takes another step closer. ''For the past two years, you have been off embroiled in your own shitty storyline, which is fine. You had - _have_ - responsibilities. You have a life outside of the Winchester family. Hey, that's great.'' She sneers, crossing her arms. ''Good for you.'' The anger burns in her stomach, her chest, her throat, like lava is running through her entire body. She is practically shaking with it, sweat breaking out on her forehead, teary eyed and ready to start swinging. ''Meanwhile,'' she scoffs, ''Sam's brooding like a sixteen year old and spewing his hateful crap at Dean, blatantly ignoring other people's problems in favor of his own because that's what Sam does. I've made peace with these things, Castiel,'' she lowers her voice. ''Sam is selfish, you are more of an absence than a presence, and that's fine. I still love you. Dean still loved you. You're still good men. But neither of you were there. Neither of you helped him. And don't lie to me and tell me you tried,'' she cuts him off when he opens his mouth, pointing a finger at him. ''Because we both know that's bullshit.'' She takes another step closer, just one more, so close to him she's almost nose to nose with him. ''You know where I was? I was here. I was always right here. And I saw _everything._ Did you know that he hadn't slept in weeks?''

''Laurel - ''

''He'd get half an hour, maybe forty five minutes if he was lucky, and then he'd spend the rest of the night in the living room, pacing. Did you know he was barely eating? And when he did, he could only keep it down about half the time. He was drinking again, worse than before. His hands _shook_. That's how bad it was. He was angry all of the time. He was _afraid._ He was afraid of himself. Did you know that? Did you know any of that?''

Cas swallows. ''No.''

She shakes her head. She steps away from him and stares down at the ground, licking her lips. ''You keep loving him, Cas,'' she whispers, ''and you grieve for as long as you need to. But don't you dare presume to know what he _wanted_.'' She turns her back on him because she can't stand to look into his wide, glassy eyes without crying. He doesn't say anything to her. She's a little surprised. She expected him to get angry.

She moves away from him and over to the window, pulling back the gauzy curtains just enough so she can see outside. It's not much of a view. Not like the amazing view of the skyline from every room in the all glass high rise condo Tommy used to live in, or the peaceful view of memorial park from Joanna's place. It's just a fire escape and a view of the dark, creepy alley. She doesn't even have a clear view of the sky. The tall, all brick building next door obstructs the view of the sky. To see the stars, you have to climb out onto the fire escape and even then the skyscrapers and city lights are mostly what you see. Despite its name, Starling City isn't the greatest place for star gazing. It's one of the reasons Laurel - a self proclaimed city girl - has always had a secret dream of settling down in nice cozy cabin in the woods, not completely isolated but far enough away to be free of the noise of the city, somewhere near water, where you can always see the stars.

Dean used to tell her, ''One day, after you've saved the world and after I've suffered the inevitable injury that keeps me from hunting, we'll go be mountain people together. We'll get a nice cabin, preferably with a hot tub, we'll get a dog, and we'll be that weird old couple who only comes into town to buy dog food and lottery tickets.''

''Just what I've always wanted,'' she'd say, laughing and winding her arms around his neck. ''Someone to grow old and weird with.''

Laurel gnaws on her thumbnail and stares out at the shadowed alleyway. She's always been a fan of heights; never scared of them, always comfortable perched up high, like a bird. Most nights, she'll sit out on the fire escape with a mug of tea or hot chocolate and try to see the stars. Usually, she'll just wind up watching people go in and out of the all night bodega across the street, which she has a perfect view of. Unlike her, Dean has always hated heights; hates the lack of control and the possibility of dying a completely undignified accidental ''splatter-y'' death. But he'll still climb out onto the fire escape next to her to drape a blanket around her shoulder, sitting with his shoulder pressed against hers, their knees touching, doing his best not to look down while he tries to make her laugh. Or - He _did._

She closes her eyes and exhales softly.

''I think he would want you to be safe,'' Castiel murmurs, not unkindly.

She turns to face him, anger and frustration slowly giving way to defeat because, try as she might, she can't argue with that.

''It's safer for you here,'' he adds on.

''Safer,'' she echoes. ''What does that mean?''

He pauses. A strange look passes through his eyes. He's trying to choose his words very carefully, she can tell. ''Dean,'' he starts, and then immediately stops, huffing out a sigh. ''Dean Winchester was both a famous and infamous hunter, Laurel. He was feared, hated, celebrated, and, in some cases, worshipped. And that's just within the hunting community. When it came to monsters and demons, he was something of a ghost story. He was the monster under the monster's bed. Once word gets out that he's...'' He trails off. ''It's going to be chaos. Demons, angels, vampires, werewolves, hunters, all of them, they're all going to want to pick apart the carcass. Worse than that, they're all going to come for us. We're vulnerable. And this - this world - his world - demons and angels... This is not your world. I have no doubt that if anything happens to you because of that, Dean will claw his way out of the afterlife just to yell at us for not keeping you safe.''

She heaves a sigh. How is she supposed to argue with that? She wants to. She wants to tell him that she is a big girl. That she is not some helpless child. That she can't let them grieve alone. If it were just her, she would be doing just that. She would be laying down the law. That's the problem, though. It's not just her. It's never going to be just her again. He's right. She may not have been an active part of the supernatural world but even she knows how notorious the Winchester brothers are. They're untouchable. But with one of them now gone...

Dean would want her to be as far away from that mess as possible.

''That does sound like something he would do,'' she admits with a faint smile.

''Laurel,'' Cas says, with a small smile. ''You need to understand - Dean is not the only one who loves you.''

She sinks back down onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at the back of her neck. ''And you really think I'm safer here?''

''There are people here who can...protect you.''

She scoffs. Honestly, why does every man in her life still operate under the assumption that she needs to be protected? She doesn't get it. Dean, her father, Sam, Oliver, even Tommy and Cas. What is that about? Do they enjoy rescuing her? Does it make them feel good? She's saved most of their asses at one point or another. For God's sake, Ollie hasn't even acknowledged the fact that she _literally killed a man_ to save his life. She actually unloaded a clip into a _police officer_ (albeit an extraordinarily corrupt one) to save his life. You'd think that would at least warrant a ''thanks'' or a ''hey, how are you doing with the whole taking a human life thing?'' but nope. That's just another thing Oliver has probably conveniently chosen to forget about.

_Men._

Just this once, just for tonight, because she's too tired, she decides she can let it slide and not go into a full length rant about how _yes, she's a woman, but that doesn't_ _automatically make her a damsel._ ''Are you talking about Oliver?'' She can't help but ask, wrinkling her nose.

''I'm talking about your sister,'' he corrects.

''Well, I'm sure she'd be flattered,'' she says, ''but she's not here. Sara left town a couple days ago. I haven't even been able to get a hold of her to tell her about our father.'' She looks down at her hands. ''...Or about Dean.''

Castiel looks momentarily thrown. ''Oh.'' He shuffles from foot to foot awkwardly. ''Well,'' he noticeably hesitates. ''I...suppose Oliver Queen will have to do then.'' His eyebrows furrow together. ''Perhaps I should send someone to watch over you.''

She arches a brow at his blatant distrust of Oliver. ''I'd really rather you didn't, Cas.''

''Can you promise me you'll stay in Starling City?''

She tilts her head to the side. ''I'll stay in Starling,'' she nods. ''On one condition. You both have to check in with me twice a week. Phone calls, not texts.''

''Done,'' is the instant reply. ''Just make sure the Devil's Trap under the door is always intact, keep the windows salted, and make sure you have an exorcism memorized.''

''Okay.'' Before he has a chance to say anything else or disappear into thin air, she rises to her feet and envelopes him in another hug. ''Please be careful,'' she whispers in his ear. ''Please, Cas. Please be careful. Please don't die on me, too.''

''Oh, Laurel,'' he says, after a moment. ''We're _trying_.''

.

.

.

After Cas is gone, Laurel, unable to sleep, shuffles into the kitchen to make herself a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it will be able to calm her down. Amazingly, she manages to make it a full eight minutes before she starts hearing his voice in her head (''I don't know how you can drink that crap,'' he always said, lip curling in disgust whenever he saw her drinking chamomile. ''It tastes like _grass_. If you want to ingest grass for kicks, at least - '' ''Do _not_ make a pot joke, Dean, I swear to God'') and picturing his face.

It comes to her in flashes.

His smile, the crinkles around his green eyes, his hands that were always strong and warm and made her feel so safe, the freckles splashed across various parts of his body - his shoulders, his nose, in his ears, on his back, around his eyes. His voice in the mornings when they were in bed; this low, gravelly rumble that was just so comforting to her for some unexplainable reason. The sound of him singing in the shower, horrible and off-key, but loud and energetic and _alive_ and, on occasion, directly to her, just to make her laugh (_''come on, baby, don't say maybe, I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me''_) because Dean Winchester didn't say 'I love you,' he just sang cheesy power ballads to you. His laugh. _His laugh._

These are things that she loved about him. These are all things that have been taken from her, ripped from her life violently and without warning. Those lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed, drawing maps on each other's skin of the places they wanted to go together, the people they wanted to be together? Gone. The vacation they were saving up for, the one they'd joke about ''maybe by our tenth anniversary we'll be able to afford it.'' Never going to happen. The dreams they shared of a normal life; a house with a big backyard, a couple of kids, a dog; he'd be a stay at home dad while she built CNRI back up from the ashes. Not an option. That feeling of relief and excitement, that thrill, that rush of something so powerful she didn't even have a name for it whenever he would walk in that door? She will never ever feel that again.

Their future, their hopes and dreams, have all been wiped away in one fell swoop.

Dean Winchester is dead.

Now all that's left is a gaping hole in her life where he used to be, the pictures of the life they shared together, and perhaps the biggest reminder...

Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and swallows the lump in her throat. When she realizes her hands are shaking so badly her tea is nearly sloshing over the edge, she places it on the counter. Slowly, trying to calm down, she breathes in through her nose and exhales through her mouth. She braces herself against the counter, hands gripping the marble top tightly, staring down.

Well.

Now what?

She raises her eyes and takes in a few more deep breaths.

Grabbing her mug of tea, she pads out of the kitchen and into the living room, snatching up the bag she had filled with Dean's belongings. It's not a good idea, not right now, before the wound has even begun to scab over, but she does it anyway. Call her a masochist. She unzips the bag, rifles through clothes, and takes out the well loved Led Zeppelin album.

Dean loves this stupid thing. _Loved_, damn it. He _loved_ this stupid thing. When they had first discovered the Men of Letters bunker and Dean had found an old record player in one of the many rooms, one of the first things he did was go out and buy records for it. Led Zeppelin's first album, Queen, Pink Floyd, Pearl Jam, along with various other albums he didn't want people to know he had (Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Air Supply, and she's pretty sure she saw a Fleetwood Mac album somewhere in the stack he brought home). She didn't necessarily get it - she's never really been a classic rock person, a fact that Dean used to call ''her only real flaw'' - but she loved seeing him so excited about something.

That year, for their anniversary, she got Thea to take her to this cute little music store that sold vinyl records for a decent price and she got him Led Zeppelin IV and an Otis Redding album to go along with the watch she bought for him. He probably liked the albums more than the watch, to be honest. She may not have been a classic rock girl, but she quickly developed a certain sort of fondness for Led Zeppelin. It became something of a tradition. Whenever she was at the bunker, it was the record he put on. The running joke was that if you heard When the Levee Breaks coming from Dean's room then you knew to either knock first or risk being traumatized. (Poor Kevin found that out the hard way.)

Laurel places the record down on the coffee table and moves over to the cabinet that is supposed to hold her fine china and wine glasses but is instead stuffed with old knick knacks and other assorted junk because she's kind of a pack rat. Carefully, she pulls out her grandfather's old record player. When her grandfather passed away when she was twenty two and her grandmother went into the nursing home, her mother's sisters and brother pretty much picked his house apart, loading up their cars with things that they just ''had to have.'' They were like vultures. Laurel thought it was shameful, morbid and disrespectful and refused to take part in it. She wasn't about to use her grandfather's death as an excuse to steal his things.

Regardless, she still ended up with the record player.

Her grandmother, who knew that Laurel was the one who had fond memories of dancing on her grandfather's feet to Bing Crosby, had stolen the record player back from one of the aunts and sent it home with Sara to give to Laurel.

Even though she had no idea how to use it and the only records she owned were cheesy old Partridge Family records that her mother left behind, she kept it around, unable to part with it. When she met Dean, he was the one who brought out the old thing and the dusty records, cleaned it up for her, and patiently taught her how to work it, stifling laughter as they tried to converse over the sound of David Cassidy. Eventually, he gave up and pulled her up off the couch, twirling her around and singing, _''I'll meet you_ _halfway, that's better than no way, there must be some way to get it together''_ until she was laughing into his neck.

By the time she's finished fiddling with the record player and the familiar music is filtering through the room, the sun is just beginning to peek through the curtains and her piping hot tea is lukewarm. She stands by the window, clutching her mug, watching the sun rise as the music Dean loved plays. She manages to keep it together for a few songs. It's only when she begins to hear the opening riff of When the Levee Breaks that she begins to deeply regret her decision to listen to the record. She bites down hard on her bottom lip and closes her eyes.

She can still remember - vividly - what his hands felt like on every inch of her body. She remembers that they were warm. They were always warm. She also remembers what they felt like most recently. They were cold and stiff and she couldn't pry his fingers apart. She remembers laying her head on his chest most nights and listening to his heartbeat until it lulled her to sleep. She also remembers what it felt like to lay her head on his still chest and hear nothing but a deafening silence. She remembers his face - bright smile, all perfect white teeth with eye crinkles and a glint in green eyes. And then she remembers gray, waxy skin that was cold to the touch, blue lips, closed eyes that would never open. She remembers the sight of him alive, breathing and vibrant. She also remembers the sight of him dead, colorless and still.

A whimper pushes its way through her lips.

What do you think it felt like? When the blade went in? How long did the pain last? How long until the body went into shock? What do you think it sounded like when the blade went through? When it tore through muscle and sinew and crashed through bone? When he gasped wetly as it punctured his heart?

His heart. Oh, god. His _heart._

How much blood was there? Do you think he was scared? What was it that he wanted to tell her? Why wasn't she there? Why wasn't she with him? Would that have made a difference? Could she have saved him or would she have just died with him? Would she have minded? Dying with him, bloody and final, her body falling next to his. Would she have minded?

See, that's one of the things that movie scripts, novels and television shows don't tell you about grieving.

There are always so many questions and never anyone left to answer them.

Meanwhile, the record player keeps playing that one song, Robert Plant's voice coming out in a raspy groan,_ ''Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan.''_

Dean is dead now. He _died._ He died violently and in pain and scared, full of blood and relief, and left everything unfinished. And all of those things they talked about she'll have to do by herself.

He's not coming home.

The mug of tea slips out of her suddenly numb hands and goes crashing to the floor. It breaks apart and the tea sloshes onto the hardwood floor. She would care, except that she's a little preoccupied with the fact that she can't breathe. She opens her mouth, attempting to gasp for air, but it's not there. It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. Her hands fly up to her throat and she gasps desperately, fruitlessly, for air. She only realizes that she's crying when she tastes the salty tears on her tongue. She goes down hard on her knees, still gasping and finally - _finally_ - the air gets through. She gulps in much needed oxygen, trying to swallow down the lump in her throat. She can't. The sobs come suddenly. They just kind of explode right out of her. Like screaming. And these are not quiet, pretty little cries either. These are loud and out of control howls.

She is suddenly glad that she's on the floor because she's not sure her legs would be able to support her. She brings a shaking hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs but she can't stop them. _He's gone_, a voice keeps reminding her, over and over as she breaks apart. _He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's really gone._

Outside, the sun rises.

This is the beginning of day one as Dean Winchester's widow.

_''Cryin' won't help you now, prayin' won't do you no good...''_

.

.

.

Laurel opens her eyes to movement.

Her eyelashes feel gluey and her eyelids are crusted with sleep and dried tears. Her head is pounding. She remembers hauling her body up onto the couch, but she doesn't remember falling asleep. She focuses her bleary gaze on the two familiar figures in her apartment. Oliver is cleaning up the broken mug on the ground. Tommy is just slipping the record player into the cupboard. She can hear someone moving around in the kitchen. Probably her mother.

Oliver is the one who spots her first. ''Laurel,'' he abandons his task and stands, but visibly restrains himself from moving towards her. He looks oddly nervous and uncomfortable, lips tightened in concern, eyes narrowed with strain.

''Hey,'' Tommy is the one who swoops in with an easy smile, gently easing her back down onto the couch when she makes a feeble attempt to sit up. ''Hey, it's okay,'' he says softly. ''Just rest.'' He rises to his feet, turning around and grasping Oliver's sleeve, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

The next thing she knows, Oliver's lifting her into his arms, murmuring a gentle, ''I'm just going to take you to bed, okay? Go back to sleep.''

She's too tired and groggy to argue, so she does.

When she opens her eyes again, she is comfortably burrowed under the covers in her own bed. Her head is still a little achy and the nausea she figures she's going to have to get used to has returned, but she feels a little better than she did. Sleep helped. She blinks a few times to clear her vision and stares at the empty side of the bed. She bites down hard on her bottom lip and rolls over to avoid looking at it. She blinks against the late afternoon sun streaming through the gauzy curtains and blindly fumbles for her phone.

5:17.

She's slept all day.

And yet she still feels exhausted.

She lets out an exhale and closes her eyes. She should probably get up. There are things to be done. She knows this. She takes another quick glance at her phone. She has eight missed calls and fifteen texts, mostly from work, so she should probably head into the office. She has to call Sam, she should really have a long overdue conversation with Oliver at some point because A) they need to talk more about the past two years, and B) he and his team handled the existence of the supernatural like champs but she still needs to go over the basic guidelines with them and make sure they all get anti-possession tattoos. And she needs to be with her father.

There's no time to wallow. The grief will just have to wait.

Laurel opens her eyes and stares at the light coming in through the curtains.

She doesn't move.

.

.

.

For the next two days, while the wound is still gushing blood and it hurts just to breathe, Laurel doesn't leave her apartment.

She forces down food that doesn't taste like anything to her dulled senses, blames it on stress and grief when it comes back up about half the time, and calls in to work, feigning illness. Her mother spends the days back and forth between the hospital and Laurel's apartment, Tommy and Oliver are in and out (Tommy more so than Oliver because Oliver is being weirdly awkward with her) with food and various other things they think she needs (Tommy keeps bringing her lavender scented things for some reason?) and she talks to her father on the phone, but for the most part, she's alone. Other than the one time her mother drew her a bath and refused to leave the bathroom doorway until Laurel got in the tub, she stays mostly in bed, alternating between sleeping and staring at the empty space beside her, feeling disconcertingly numb.

All she wants is for this bone deep exhaustion to go away, but it won't, no matter how many hours of sleep she gets. Every part of her hurts. There is a persistent _ache_ in her body. The emotional pain is so bad that it's beginning to affect her physically.

The grief isn't actually killing her. Logically, she knows that. Her body is fully functioning. It only _feels_ like she's shutting down.

On the morning of the third day, she wakes up at five in the morning and can't get back to sleep. She lies there for an hour and a half and she just _thinks_. It's a dangerous thing to do for someone attempting to wade through such intense grief. Out of all of the sorrowful, pleading, angry, desperate, somewhat disturbing thoughts that keep running through her head, there is only one that stands out with such fierce intensity that it makes her breath catch.

_Make it stop._

She feels like she needs to scream. She's not sure how to describe it. It's like there's something caught in her throat; no words, not sobs, but a scream. She feels like she needs to fall to her knees and scream it out, louder and louder until the windows crack, until it's all out of her, until all of the pain has been released and she can start fresh.

Ridiculous, she knows.

She just wants it to _stop._

It's just after seven o'clock in the morning when her bedroom door creaks open. She doesn't move. It's probably just her mother stopping in before she heads to the hospital. Quiet footsteps approach the bed and the next thing she knows, the mattress is dipping as someone climbs into bed with her. Laurel lifts her eyes. There's a brief second of shock, a welcome flood of relief, and then she's a blubbering mess. ''Sara,'' she chokes out through her hysteria.

Sara lies down on the empty side of the bed, filling the space. She smiles, or at least attempts to, but it's too sad to be a real smile. ''Hi,'' she whispers.

Unlike everyone else who looks at her, Sara is not looking at Laurel with pity in her eyes. There is no _'oh you poor sad girl, what a mess you've gotten yourself into'_ condescending kind of pity like when her mother looks at her. There is no _'you just can't win one, can you?'_ type of pity that she sees in Tommy and Oliver's eyes. There is only a gentle, understanding kind of sympathy. Maybe, just maybe, someone is finally here to help her instead of watching her burn.

''You came back,'' Laurel slurs out, weeping but grateful, so, so grateful.

Sara smiles again, just a barely there glimmer of one, and she reaches out to tuck a strand of Laurel's stringy hair behind her ear, a move that Laurel has made so many times before. ''I came back for you,'' she says. ''I'll always come back for you.'' Her smile fades and she takes Laurel's hand in her own, squeezing gently. ''I'm sorry,'' she whispers. ''Laurel, I am _so_ sorry.''

Laurel wants to say something. She wants desperately to take back her control, to _stop crying_, and be the older sister. She wants to say something like, ''I'm glad you're here'' or, ''thank you for coming.'' She wants to tell Sara to go see their dad because he needs her more, but she can't speak around the strangling sobs or the ever present scream stick in her throat. When she finally does manage to get something out, it's not any of these things. It's a desperate choke of, ''What do I do?'' She clutches at her sister's hand like a lifeline. ''Sara,'' she mumbles miserably. ''What am I supposed to do now?''

Sara, stroking Laurel's hair with her free hand, frowns deeply. ''Laurel - ''

''No,'' Laurel moans, shaking her head. ''No, you don't - you don't understand. I... Sara...'' She licks her lips. She says it very quietly, ''I'm going to have a baby.''

Sara freezes. She draws her hand away from Laurel's hair and her lips part, but no words come out. ''Oh,'' is all she manages to breathe out. Something must click then because the stunned look in her eyes shifts from shocked to worried. ''_Oh_.''

And there it is.

The thing she has been so afraid to acknowledge.

She has said it out loud to someone. An alive someone. The one and only time she has said it out loud, the one time she has fully acknowledged that there is something growing inside of her, is when she whispered, ''We're having a baby,'' into Dean's ear while she was lying on the bed with his body, foolishly hoping he would somehow wake up if she told him the ''happy'' news. Saying it out loud to Sara, a living, breathing person, is different. It makes it real. This is real.

She's having a baby. She's having a dead man's baby.

''Oh, _Laurel_,'' Sara says, voice cracking on her name, right before she scoots closer and gathers her into her arms. Laurel tenses for a moment, just as Sara's arms are wrapping around her, simply because she is the older sister. She's the one who is supposed to take care of Sara. Not the other way around. But Sara keeps murmuring, ''I'm sorry, honey, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm here,'' into Laurel's hair, and her body is warm and she came back for her.

Sara has never come back for her before.

So Laurel allows herself to melt into the embrace and she holds on tightly, letting Sara pull her out of the water.

Laurel has gotten so tired of drowning.

It's nice to have someone hold her up for awhile.

.

.

.

Okay.

Here's how it would go.

If Laurel could rewrite their story, fix the broken parts, save them both from the torment and the tragedy, the sharp edges and the cruel forms of love thrown at them, there are two things she would do.

**One:** She would realize, sooner, that she didn't deserve the things that have happened to her, the things that have been done to her, said to her, and that none of it was ever her fault.

**Two:** She would talk Dean off that same ledge - before he went to Cain, before he started the process of committing slow suicide - and make damn sure that he knew he was good; that regardless of whatever Sam said to hurt him or whatever his father did to him in the past, he was a good man who made mistakes but who was still worthy, and it was going to be _okay. _

In her version, they are not shamed for being broken by their friends and family, by themselves. Instead they are allowed to quietly repair themselves and each other until they evolve into two people who, despite the crushing weight that will always be there, are happy.

In this version, this fairytale world, they are allowed peace.

She has a dream about it.

It goes like this:

A cozy house in the woods, surrounded by trees, with the sparkle of water just visible through the leaves of the trees. Laurel, standing out on the porch in the moonlight, watching the stars that feel so close she thinks she could touch them if she tried. Dean, in the doorway, a dark silhouette framed by the warm light coming from inside. He's holding their child in the crook of his arm, a beautiful, perfect bundle of blankets and soft fuzzy hair, and he's beckoning her towards him.

_Come back inside, pretty bird. Come back to bed._

She wants to. In the dream, there is nothing more she'd like to do than go inside with her family. She wants to go inside. She wants to be happy. She can't. The dream ends rather abruptly. Dean goes back inside with their baby, into the light, and she is left in the cold, in the dark.

Alone.

The door slams shut.

She wakes up.

.

.

.

The answer is no, by the way.

She can't win one.

.

.

.

When Laurel wakes up, jerking awake in bed, the sound of the door slamming still fresh in her mind, Sara is gone.

She wonders, briefly, if it was a dream - her sister coming to rescue her - but then the smell of fresh, sizzling bacon greets her. Her stomach grumbles hungrily, reminding her that she hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. She can hear Sara puttering around in the kitchen, banging around various pots and pans. She rolls over to check the time and when she sees that it's almost noon, she heaves a sigh. She sends one last glance over to the empty side of the bed, and then she gets out of bed.

It's time to rejoin life.

She takes an extra long, hot shower, spends a truly pathetic amount of time trying to decide whether or not using Dean's shampoo would be comforting or painful before ultimately using her own. After she gets out of the shower, hair still dripping wet, she pauses in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom. She hesitates a moment and then she drops her robe. With narrowed, searching eyes, she gives her naked body a critical - probably too critical - onceover, looking for any visible signs of pregnancy.

Looking back on it, she supposes there were things she missed. Things she shrugged off or blamed on stress. Lord knows there's been enough stress in her life. She's been tired lately, more so than usual, but she is _always_ tired so she blamed it on her crappy, hectic life and made a half hearted mental note to get more sleep and up her coffee intake. She's been nauseous and a little headachy, but she has a history of physical discomfort due to the amount of stress she piles onto herself. Nausea and headaches are par for the course with her. Not to mention, she's clean and sober now, but it's still something relatively fresh and every now and then, she'll get a craving that will make her hands shake or her head pound. There'd been a bad bout of vomiting a couple of days before Dean left for Chicago that had her camping out on the bathroom floor while he held her hair back for her and refused to leave her side, but that was the same night she had gone out with her dad to some new Thai place downtown so she blamed it on food poisoning and vowed never to eat there again. Periods weren't a major concern for her either. Her periods have always been irregular - sometimes heavy, sometimes light and spotty, often times missed, especially in times of stress.

Even the physical changes didn't really register with her. Right now, looking at her naked body in the mirror, she can see that there are physical changes. They're incredibly minor, but they _are_ there. Her breasts look fuller, her stomach bloated, just barely, but she has been actively trying to gain weight these past few months. This past year, she lost a drastic amount of weight because that's what drinking your meals does to you, and she didn't look healthy. It got so bad that Dean pretty much openly admitted he was afraid of accidentally breaking her. So, gaining weight... She just thought...

But nope.

She's pregnant.

In all honesty, the fact that she's pregnant isn't terribly surprising. She and Dean could have been better at safe sex. They had been somewhat lacking in that category for the past several months. You would think they would know better considering last year, but no. Look, this past year has been really weird, okay? Neither of them were at their best. Sometimes it's hard to remember to take your birth control pills when you're more concerned with popping benzodiazepines, downing a glass of wine and jumping him the second he gets out of the shower. Sometimes condoms are forgotten when you're both drunk and can't even make it to the bedroom so you have drunken, messy, kind of awkward sex on the floor of the hallway without taking all of your clothes off. And sometimes, when your significant other is gone for a long stretch of time, your only thought when they walk in the door is the quickest way to get naked.

So, no, the fact that she's pregnant isn't something that is hugely surprising. What's surprising is that she's ten weeks pregnant and she didn't even know, didn't even _suspect_, which she thinks sounds absolutely ridiculous.

God's honest truth?

She has far lower self-esteem than people think. She has issues with every part of herself, including her body. She didn't used to. Not when she was a kid, or even into her early teens. But when Sara blossomed, she blossomed so beautifully. Sara had curves. Sara turned heads with her thick blond hair, pouty lips and doe eyes. Laurel was flat with chubby cheeks, skinny arms, and glasses. That's not to say that people were never interested in Laurel, because they were. The problem was that she didn't know why. She never saw what they saw. It was her own issues, her own head, and her own self-doubt that kept her from having a social life.

And then when she started dating Oliver... Well. Oliver liked to look. Let's put it that way. (Oliver, as she learned later, liked to do more than look.) Most of the time, when he looked at other girls, he was looking at girls who didn't have flat chests or weight that fluctuated. Over the years, her self-consciousness grew and grew, until she began to hate the mirror.

All of that is the reason why, every now and then, she'd look at Dean - tall, strong, handsome, let's-face-it-hot-like-burning Dean - and blurt out, just out of nowhere, ''You know you can do better, right?''

Instead of looking at her with an expression full of muted horror (Tommy) or vague annoyance (pre-island Oliver), he would kiss her cheek and say, ''No such thing, pretty bird.'' He was never aggravated by her issues (pre-island Oliver...and a little bit post-island Oliver) or made things awkward while he was trying to make things better (Tommy), he just said, ''No such thing, pretty bird,'' and spent the next few days making subtle, very sweet attempts to make her feel better.

The point is that she doesn't like looking at herself naked and she doesn't like feeling like shit about herself, so she's learned to avoid studying her appearance too carefully. Because of this, she has missed certain things. It's not like it's overwhelmingly obvious that she's pregnant yet, but her body has changed and she feels like she should have noticed that. She should have noticed all of it. Especially because...

Well, because she's been pregnant before.

Last year - almost exactly a year ago - she went through morning sickness and sore, growing breasts and headaches and even a little bit of weight gain. How could she not have known this time? She had been pregnant the last time she saw Dean. She had been pregnant when he left for Chicago. She had been pregnant during all of those Skype dates, all of those phone calls, when they couldn't get a hold of each other. She had been pregnant when she had been trapped in the rubble, when she had been drugged, when she had been kidnapped. The mere fact that the baby survived all of that is a miracle. She had been pregnant when he left that message. That last voicemail. That last call. She had been pregnant when he _died._

Ten weeks.

And Dean never even knew.

Because she was too stupid, or too stubborn, or too stuck in denial, or too _busy_ to listen to what her body was trying to tell her.

It's not fair. None of this is fair.

Would it have made a difference?

There's another one of those questions that will never be answered. Except - No. She does know the answer to that question. It would have. She's not sure how it would have made a difference, but it would have. She knows that. Even if the only difference was him knowing... It would have made a difference.

Laurel pulls the robe back on and searches for something to wear. Part of her wants to hide in here for a lot longer, maybe forever, because she doesn't want any of what's about to come. She doesn't want people's condolences, she doesn't want them to be sorry for her loss, she doesn't want their inevitable pity, and she doesn't want to have to answer their questions. She doesn't want to talk about losing Dean, or the baby, or any of it. She wants Dean.

In lieu of his miraculous return, she would just like to go to sleep.

Most unfortunately for her, she has a life.

Once she has decided on an old t-shirt she's had since high school and a pair of yoga pants, she pulls her hair up into a sloppy ponytail and reluctantly shuffles out of the bedroom. The air smells like coffee and bacon. The bacon smells good. The coffee smell instantly turns her stomach and the ravenous hunger she had previously felt seems to all but disappear.

She can hear music playing in the kitchen. Sara probably has the radio on. She always did that. When they were teenagers and their parents were working late, Sara and Laurel would take over the kitchen. Sara would make dinner with some new recipe she had gotten off the internet and Laurel would make dessert. To cover up the silence, even if it was relatively comfortable silence, Sara always turned on the radio and sang along, whether she knew the words or not. When they were really little, Sara would make up silly lyrics to go along with the songs she didn't know the words to and sing them at the top of her lungs until Laurel was laughing hysterically and their parents were practically begging her to stop.

After the boat went down, after Sara, Laurel's life went silent. The music stopped. She didn't laugh. Until Dean came along, singing AC/DC at the top of his lungs and doing whatever he could to make her laugh. It's strange. For so long, so much of her life could be divided into two parts. With Sara and then _after Sara_. Now that Sara's home, everything should be right again. Except now she has to live a life _after Dean_. Is this some kind of twisted balance thing? Is that what this is? She has to be without Sara to have Dean and she has to lose Dean to have Sara? Is she only allowed a certain amount of happiness?

Laurel follows the music to the tiny kitchen in her apartment and finds her sister, bustling around the tiny space like Dean used to, not singing but humming along to the music while she munches on a strip of bacon. Laurel props an arm up against the doorframe and watches. Even in the ridiculously small space, Sara is flawless grace. Always has been. Sara - the dancer - was all grace while Laurel - the gymnast - was all elegance. Her father used to be awed by them. Or so he says. ''My angels,'' he called them. ''Graceful and elegant. Aren't I lucky?''

She swallows the scream again.

_Aren't I lucky?_

What a fantastically depressingly incorrect statement.

There's no such thing as luck.

''How are you feeling?''

She jumps at the sound of her sister's voice, standing up straight. Sara is loading up a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and two pieces of buttered toast. She hasn't even turned around. Laurel considers this question for a moment and thinks about all of the possible answers to that. ''Like I've been emptied out,'' she blurts out, without thinking. ''I don't know. Like something's been scraped out of me, I guess? I feel...''

At the counter, Sara has suddenly gone utterly still. She turns around to face Laurel. ''Hollow,'' she tries.

Laurel nods jerkily. ''Yes. Hollow. ...I've been here before.''

''So have I,'' Sara says. ''It's loneliness.''

''It's _loss_.''

Sara's lips tighten like they do when she's about to cry but before Laurel can react, she's smiling again. It's extremely fake, but it's pretty clear she's trying to be a cheerleader here and Laurel simply doesn't have the heart to tell her to stop. Sara holds up the plate of food. ''I made you breakfast.''

Laurel recoils, splaying a hand over her queasy stomach. It's possible she's only feeling sick because she's hungry but she's not sure she's willing to take that chance. ''I'm not hungry.''

Sara falters, but ultimately keeps the smile on. ''Laurel, you have to eat something.''

She really should eat something. Being pregnant is utterly terrifying and it's devastating that she'll have to do it without him, but the truth is that this baby, while unplanned, is very much wanted. She is going to have to start taking better care of herself. With a sigh, she nods towards the coffee pot. ''The coffee smell is making me nauseous.''

''I'll get rid of it,'' Sara says immediately. ''I promise. Just... Here,'' she practically shoves the plate of food at Laurel. ''Take this and try to eat, okay? I'll make you some hot chocolate or tea. Or both.''

''You don't have to do that.''

''I know. But I want to.''

Laurel looks down at the plate of food. She doesn't move.

Sara edges towards her cautiously. ''Please let me help you, Laurel.''

Laurel's eyes water, but she blinks furiously until her vision is clear. ''Okay.'' Dutifully, she takes the plate of food and heads into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. She manages to choke down half a strip of bacon and two bites of toast, forcing herself to swallow it down before she stops, leaning back against the couch and bringing her knees up. She's trying, she really is. She knows she needs to eat. It's just hard to have an appetite when you constantly feel like you're spinning from grief. Well. That and Sara's never been great at breakfast foods. A pot roast, sure. Homemade pizza, sure. But Sara has never really mastered the simplicity of bacon and eggs. Which was always fine, because breakfast foods and mac and cheese were basically the only things Laurel could cook. (She still can't cook much. But Dean was a good teacher. He never got frustrated with her. Never even laughed at her for making some ridiculous mistake.)

When Sara sits down next to her, handing her a mug of what smells like peppermint tea, the first thing Laurel asks, before Sara can bring up Dean, is, ''Have you been to see Dad?''

''I went to see him last night,'' Sara sinks back into the couch cushions. Laurel looks at her closely. She looks tired. Pale. ''I wound up spending the night there. He tried to insist I go see you right away, but I... Um... I just felt like I really needed to stay with him.''

Laurel presses her lips together and sends her sister a sharp look. That's worrying. ''Is he okay?''

''He's healing,'' is the quick response. It's a little too quick. ''He's just...'' Sara picks at her cuticles, something she does when she's nervous. ''He's still in a...a fair amount of pain.'' When she notices the way Laurel's hands tighten around the mug, she is quick to sit up and place her hand on her sister's arm. ''But he's going to be okay, Laurel. The doctors say he's going to be okay. He just hates hospitals. He complained nonstop,'' she huffs out a small laugh. ''Which I think means he's getting better.''

Laurel almost allows herself to laugh too before she remembers she can't. Not right now. She just...can't. She sips at her tea.

Sara, when she eventually does decide to fill the silence between them, sounds hesitant, reluctant to even say his name, like she's afraid the mere mention of him will break Laurel into pieces. She's not entirely wrong. ''Did...Did Dean know?'' She asks. ''About the baby?'' When Laurel stills and reaches forwards to put the mug down on the coffee table, Sara hurries to backtrack. ''I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – ''

''No.'' Laurel quickly grasps Sara's hand, squeezing gently. ''No, it's okay. You - It's fine.'' She shakes her head. ''Um.'' She clears her throat after a pause. ''No. He - He didn't know. I never got the chance to tell him.'' Not when he was alive anyway. ''I didn't even know until the day he...'' She pulls her hand away from Sara's and draws her knees up to her chest again, resting her chin on them. ''Dean called me that night, you know. It was literally seconds after I had been told about - about the baby. I heard my phone ringing. I...'' She closes her eyes. ''I knew it was him,'' her voice breaks. ''And I didn't pick up. I should have picked up the phone. But I was... I was in shock and I...'' She steps, clenching her teeth. ''He left me a message. He promised he would call me back. He never did.''

''Laurel,'' Sara whispers. She doesn't say anything else.

''Sam said he was trying to tell me something.''

''Dean?''

She nods. ''He said that Dean... At the end... He kept saying ''tell her'' but he couldn't... He never...'' She trails off again. She can't quite get the words out. It's like they're there, right there, on the tip of her tongue, but they won't leave her mouth. She swallows down the whimper that she can feel in her throat. She forces back a flinch when Sara takes her hand and lets her sister thread her fingers through hers. ''He never called me back,'' her voice is thick. ''And he never got the chance to tell me whatever it was he wanted to tell me. And he never knew about our baby. And I didn't pick up the phone.'' She rakes her free hand through her hair. ''I should have picked up the damn phone.''

Sara pulls her in for another hug, both arms wrapped around her. Laurel lets her. She releases a breath into her sister's shoulder and melts. Sara doesn't let go for a long time. ''I don't know what to do.''

That's when Sara pulls away. She doesn't look like she knows the answer to that question. She looks like she wouldn't mind having someone tell _her_ the answer to that question. ''Well,'' she says. ''You take it day by day. Minute by minute. Some will be harder than others. For now,'' she grabs the plate off the table. ''You eat your breakfast.''

''Sara...''

''Laurel, _please._ For the baby.''

She sighs. She grabs the half eaten piece of toast off the plate and nibbles at it slowly. Sara seems to accept this as good enough for now, because she puts the plate down and doesn't try to push the scrambled eggs on her. Laurel makes it through the piece of toast and, when Sara gives her a pointed look, picks up the second piece. It gets easier. Eating the toast. It gets easier. She wonders if that will be what life is like now. You force yourself to keep going and eventually, it gets easier. That has not been her experience so far.

''Laurel?'' Laurel looks over at Sara, who has a thoughtful look on her face. She opens her mouth and then closes it, looking away and chewing her lower lip nervously. ''If it's okay,'' she begins slowly, cautiously. ''I'd like to know more about him.''

It's a simple request. It sounds rather sweet, actually. A sister wanting to know about the brother-in-law she never got the chance to know. Except it's not that simple. It never was when it came to Dean and Sara. The only thing they ever shared was a mutual animosity. Something dreadful and sour curdles in Laurel's stomach, not morning sickness or grief, but bitterness. ''You didn't even like him,'' she bites out, far harsher than she intended it to be. The venom in her voice surprises her. It always does. Tommy always says her bark is worse than her bite. She's not one hundred percent convinced that's true, but that doesn't mean her bark isn't a little terrifying, even to her.

''No, I didn't,'' Sara responds calmly, albeit bluntly. She doesn't even flinch. ''But you loved him,'' she says. ''And he sure as hell loved you. I'd love to know more about that. If that's okay with you.''

Laurel softens. There's a pause. ''What would you like to know?''

Sara shrugs. ''Anything. Whatever you'd like to tell me. Just...'' She looks like she's struggling for words. ''What was he like? What were his hobbies? How did you two meet?''

Laurel fixes her eyes on her plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

They met in February, on the streets of Starling City, right outside of this greasy spoon diner that served the best pancakes in Starling but had the worst coffee.

It's not there anymore. It got wiped out by the earthquake. The sidewalk where they stood, where she first saw what he looked like when he smiled, is cracked and ruined and stained with the blood of the owner of the diner, who was also lost in the quake. Dean used to take her there on Sunday mornings, or late at night when he would find her at CNRI in the middle of the night, working on something that she couldn't get out of her head. So many parts of their relationship have been wiped out. Like life has been slowly, systematically taking apart the foundation of their relationship for the past two years.

That day in February, that cold winter day that changed everything and forced her to throw out every life plan she had ever made for herself, she was running. Not because she had somewhere to be, just because back then she always seemed to be in a hurry, rushing towards something she couldn't see. ''Did you swallow a fuckin' tornado at some point in your life?'' Dean had asked her once, hurrying to catch up with her.

It was a Saturday afternoon, it was winter, and she was freezing. She hadn't exactly been planning on meeting the love of her life - she was just going grocery shopping - so she wasn't wearing a cute dress with flawless hair and makeup. She was wearing ratty old jeans with one blown out knee, an old Starling City University t-shirt with a pizza stain on the left shoulder, a black blazer in an attempt to class up the outfit and cover the stain, and sky high heels just _because she could_. Her hair was still wet from the shower, so she had it up and had a knit cap on her head. She hadn't felt like putting in her contacts, so she was wearing her black rimmed glasses, she had no makeup on, and she had forgotten her gloves at home. All she could think about was that she should have worn more clothes because it was colder than expected and she really needed some kind of hot beverage to warm up her ice cube hands.

She was going to go grocery shopping, because all she had in her house was a half a block of cheese that was growing moldy and boxes of cereal but no milk, she was going to stop at the used bookstore, beside the supermarket she went to, because she read the most in the winter and she had run out of things she hadn't read at home, and she was going to run to the precinct and check on her father. None of that happened.

She wound up running into Dean instead.

She hadn't been looking where she was going, too preoccupied with fishing her cell phone out of her bag so she could call her dad and ask if he needed anything from the store, so she hadn't actually seen him coming out of the diner with a coffee cup in his hand. She did, however, feel it when she ran into his solid body and the hot coffee splashed all over both of them.

It still makes her laugh when she remembers that the first words she ever heard him say were, ''Son of a bitch.''

Once the shock of the hot coffee had worn off, the mortification had set in. ''Oh, god,'' she had grimaced, reaching out for him without realizing what she was doing. ''Oh my god, I'm so sorry!''

''No.'' She remembers that even though she was upright and had never really been in danger of falling over, his hands had gone straight to her arms, not in a threatening sort of way but like he wanted to catch her. ''No, it's okay, it's my fault,'' he said. ''I wasn't - ''

She raised her head from where she had her eyes downcast, focusing on the coffee stain on his shirt and the splotches on her shoes, the empty cup rolling away, and their eyes met. He went silent immediately; lips still parted like the words were right there but had somehow died in his throat. For her part, she wasn't much better. Still completely embarrassed, all she managed to come up with when she realized the person she had given third degree burns to was incredibly good looking was a squeak of, ''Oh.'' She tried to offer him an apologetic smile but it probably came out as more of a wince. ''Hi.''

He looked at her, studying her with such intensity - brows knitted together, eyes narrowed - that she started to worry she had something on her face. ''I'm sorry,'' he had said, finally, shaking his head. ''Do I...'' He paused, frowning and inclining his head to the side. ''Have we met?''

''Um,'' she pulled her purse up on her shoulder. ''I don't think so.''

''Are you sure? You look...really familiar.''

''Well,'' she had laughed, bending over to pick up the empty cup. ''I'm pretty sure I would remember you.''

And that was when he smiled.

Somewhere deep inside of her, she felt this awful, uncomfortable, wonderful kind of stirring in her gut, in her chest that she immediately tried to ignore because she did not have time for that. ''I'm really sorry,'' she went on, when he didn't say anything, swallowing in an attempt to swallow down the heart in her throat. ''I should have been watching where I was going.''

''No, really,'' he waved it off. ''It's okay.'' He smiled at her again, only this time there was a devious twinkle in his eye that made her stomach flip flop. She knew exactly what that meant. She'd seen it in the eyes of a lot of people who flirted with Jo whenever she dragged Laurel out to one of the clubs. ''Feel free to run into me anytime.''

She laughed, because she couldn't help it, and her hand went out to touch his shirt, where the coffee stain was. ''I spilled your coffee.''

''It was terrible coffee.''

''You got it from the wrong place then,'' she blurted. Instead of offering him one last apology and walking away, she held out her hand and said, with a smile that probably looked calmer than she felt, ''I'm Laurel.''

He glanced down at her outstretched hand, hesitated just long enough for her anxiety to curl up inside her throat, restricting her breath momentarily, and then he took her hand. ''Dean.'' His hand was warm and she remembers that he held onto her hand for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to warm her up, something that he would spend the next five years doing flawlessly. ''Hey, Laurel,'' he said, ''do me a favor?'' He leaned in, not so close that he made her uncomfortable, but close enough so that she could see that his eyes were a lovely shade of green. ''Go inside and warm up. Your hands are freezing and your hair is wet. You'll catch pneumonia out here.''

She arched a brow, thought about it, and then decided to take the leap. Joanna was always telling her to step outside of her comfort zone. There was a part of her - the part of her that had once belonged to Oliver, to Tommy, the part of her that had avoided every look that came her way for the past year - that was screaming at her, _what the hell do_ _you think you're doing?_ But the other part of her - the part of her that was lonely, that was tired of waking up alone, that wanted someone to warm her up - simply said, _you can't pretend you're okay with being alone forever._

So she went for it.

''You know, there's a coffee shop around the block. It's warm, very cozy, and they make killer coffee. I'll go in there and I'll even sit by the fireplace, as long as you come with me and let me buy you a cup of coffee.'' She shrugged and did her best to appear nonchalant, despite the fact that her heart was racing, her anxiety was through the roof, and she honestly had no idea what she was doing. She wasn't a shy person, but this had never been one of her strong suits. It never had been. She had always been chased. She had never done the chasing. And she was terrible at flirting. Everyone said so. ''Maybe if we're both sitting down, it'll up your chances of getting the coffee in your mouth instead of all over your wardrobe.''

She was pretty sure he would say no. He was still smiling at her, but it didn't quite reach his eyes and his body language had suddenly become closed off. He looked reluctant to say yes, throwing a look over his shoulder like he was waiting for someone. He wasn't, she would learn later. He just wasn't used to not having someone to wait for. Sam had ''died'' months ago and he still wasn't used to being alone. He licked his lips, which was an extremely mixed signal, and took a breath. ''Actually,'' he said, eventually. ''That sounds great.'' A slow, hesitant smile crawled its way across his lips. ''Lead the way, Laurel...''

''Lance,'' she supplied. ''Laurel Lance.''

''Well, it's nice to meet you, Laurel Lance.''

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But whatever, whenever, however this ends  
>I want you to know that right now,<br>I love you forever.

ANDREA GIBSON | HOW IT ENDS

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**end chapter two**

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><p><strong>AN: Okay, so, yes. She's pregnant. I don't want to make this AN too long but I want to talk about that briefly because I know that pregnancy fics are not everyone's cup of tea. I totally understand that. Sometimes pregnancy fics (or even pregnancy storylines in canon) just wind up being fluff or angst fests where the pregnant character is either kept out of all of the action or acts OOC. That will not be happening in this fic. Not in the slightest. This is a Laurel-centric story, the pregnancy is actually extremely important for plot reasons, and I can assure you she is going to be all up in that action in MAJOR ways.<strong>

**Black Canary is coming. She's just fighting for two now.**


	3. THE LAST REAL MOMENT

_AN: Fun fact: This was the chapter I was writing when my burning passion for Tommy/Oliver was ignited. I still have no idea how this happened but it did._

**Disclaimer:** I own none of the characters you recognize.

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><p><strong>the lovers left broken<strong>

_Written by Becks Rylynn_

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><p>.<p>

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**Chapter Three**

_THE LAST REAL MOMENT_

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The first week you were gone  
>I kept seeing your hand wave goodbye<br>like a windshield wiper in a flooding car  
>in the last real moment I believed<br>the hurricane would let me out alive

ANDREA GIBSON | MAYBE I NEED YOU

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The next few days are filled with that all too familiar feeling of numbness.

Sara hovers over her, worried and desperate to help but at a loss as to how to help. Tommy won't stop asking her what she needs and every time she has to swallow down a snap of, ''I need Dean,'' and simply tell him, ''Nothing, but thank you.'' Oliver sends a care package that, judging from the abundance of ice cream and cookies, is not actually from Oliver but Felicity. Her father is steadily improving and the doctors are talking about possibly releasing him.

Meanwhile, Laurel makes phone calls. She calls work and is told to take a week off but be in by next Wednesday for an important meeting, which she figures means she's most likely fired. The DA's office is in shambles, still reeling from recent events, and things are chaotic there. She's spoken to a few co-workers since then and they've all told her that they're most likely going to be cleaning house. Given her history, the things that have transpired in the past year - being disbarred, the way she got her job back - she's expecting to be tossed out on her ass come next Monday. She's not sure how she feels about that, but she's definitely sure that she should be far more panicked about the possibility of losing her job than she is.

She calls Sam to check in. He's fine, he tells her. Or as fine as he can be. It's a straight up lie. There's really no way for it to be anything but. He tells her that he's just trying to figure out what to do next. How to handle this. He's keeping something from her. She's perfectly aware of that. She knows how to spot lies better than most people. She knows lies when she hears them. It's a lawyer thing. It's whether or not she wants to know what the lie is that becomes a problem.

For instance, she knew from the beginning that Oliver was lying to her and keeping secrets. She simply chose not to pull on that thread because some part of her knew that there were only a few options as to what his secret was. She's glad that it's Ollie. She's glad that he's the Arrow. _Now._ But for a long time, in the beginning, she wanted so badly for it to be anyone but him.

Cas promises her he'll keep an eye on Sam and keep her updated. He also urges her, once again, to stay safe and to make sure her place is safe guarded against demons. He puts a lot of emphasis on staying safe these days. More so than he did before. More so than even Dean did before. _Stay inside at night,_ Laurel, Cas tells her. _Stay close to your sister. Watch out for demons. Please watch out for demons._

Quite honestly, there's a part of her that really doesn't want to know.

One of these days, she'll drag whatever they're keeping from her out of them with her bare hands, with sharp teeth, sharper words, and a smile. For now, she'll let them lie. Everything has spun out of control since Dean died, she knows that. She figures the least she can do is give them this itty bitty bit of control.

While they're off lying and keeping secrets, she keeps going. What else can she do? She calls the doctor's office to make an appointment. She cleans her apartment. She eats, she sleeps, she keeps breathing, and she visits her father every day and stays with him until he tells her to go home, trying to get up the nerve to tell him about the baby. She's not okay. She's not fine. But.

She's here, isn't she?

For now, that will have to be enough.

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A week after Sara comes home to her, Laurel decides it's time to visit Team Arrow.

Due to recent unfortunate circumstances, Oliver and his team have had to move their headquarters. Sara tells her that Ollie had a secondary location ready but that Tommy took one look at the dark cave, blurted out, ''fuck your vampire shit, Ollie'' and bought the penthouse suite in the newest luxurious condo in town. Oliver had protested vehemently, according to Sara, but Tommy had Felicity on his side and once those two teamed up there was no stopping it.

''Hiding in plain sight,'' Sara says. ''It's actually brilliant. Ollie just likes the aesthetics of brooding in a darkened cave. He's kind of a dork.''

Laurel figures since Tommy is so proud of the new place, she should at least see it. Besides, it's high past time to have that chat with Oliver and Company about the supernatural. They really should know. They're damn good at hunting the human monsters but she figures it's probably a good idea to at least give them basic training on demons. Sara, who was not at all surprised by the existence of the supernatural and seems to know more about it than she's willing to share (there is a lot about those six years that she hasn't told anyone) offers to give them the rundown so that Laurel can stay home and rest. She's always telling Laurel to rest these days. Since the actual baby daddy isn't here to stress about her well being and whether or not she's taking prenatal vitamins, Sara seems to have taken on the role.

Yesterday she went out to get groceries and came back with the entire pregnancy section from Barnes & Noble.

''Are you sure about this?'' She asks in the elevator, face taut with concern, body rigid like she's waiting for Laurel to collapse. ''Because you don't have to do this. We can go home and binge watch trashy reality shows instead. Say what you will about them but Keeping Up with the Kardashians is strangely riveting.''

''I'm grieving, Sara,'' Laurel points out gently. ''I'm not contagious.''

''I know that,'' Sara says quickly. ''But you're also pregnant.''

''So?''

''So... You should be taking it easy, right?''

Laurel arches an eyebrow at her. You know, she's beginning to think that pregnancy might freak Sara out a little bit. ''Sara, sweetie, I'm pregnant. I'm not terminal.''

Sara pinches her lips together. ''I know,'' she murmurs. ''I just...'' _Worry about you_, is what she doesn't say, although it still hangs in the air. ''Are you going to tell them about the baby?''

''I haven't even told Mom and Dad about the baby yet,'' Laurel sighs. ''I think it's best if I keep this to myself for a little while longer, okay? Just until I'm in the second trimester.'' She doesn't want to announce to the world that she's pregnant and then have something happen. Maybe that's overly pessimistic, but the last time she was pregnant she lost the baby literally a day after they told her father that there was a baby on the way and she still cringes when she remembers the pity on his face after the miscarriage.

''Got it. Keeping my mouth shut about the littlest Lance.'' Sara mimes zipping her mouth shut.

_Littlest Winchester-Lance_, Laurel thinks.

The elevator slows to a stop and when the doors slide open and she steps out, her jaw drops. She takes in the sight of Team Arrow's new headquarters with wide eyes, idly wondering why she's so surprised by the luxury of it all. It's Tommy and Oliver. And it's a _penthouse_. Luxury was to be expected, but... This place is gorgeous. And _huge_. It's three times the size of her apartment. Her apartment could probably fit in one of the bathrooms. It's all open concept, with a big kitchen off to one side, all stainless steel appliances, marble countertops, and rich cherry wood cabinets. There's a living room with an obnoxiously fluffy shag carpet (Oliver, one hundred percent), a fireplace, a single couch, a few IKEA boxes and a huge TV (Tommy, definitely) mounted on the wall, and the entire space is decorated in - because Tommy is a snarky little shit and everybody knows it - various shades of green. The rest of the space is mostly bare, save for a bunch of boxes, and a desk with a few monitors on it. There's a hallway that probably leads to way too big bedrooms and bathrooms. There's a spiral staircase that leads up to the master bedroom, which is basically an entire floor that overlooks the entire downstairs.

The part that impresses her the most is that one entire wall of the penthouse, from floor to the incredibly high ceiling, is all glass, bathing the vast space in natural light. There's a door that leads out into a rooftop garden and patio. On the patio, there's a greenhouse off to one side, and a table and a few folding chairs off to the other. It's a gorgeous space. It feels more like a home than an office. It's welcoming. A far cry from the cramped, dark lair they were in before that kind of smelled like stale Doritos, dirt, and sweat.

Sure, she can easily see some issues with a space like this operating as a base for secret vigilantes. (Accessibility, mainly. The only way up here is to go through a polished lobby and take an elevator - unless you're jumping rooftops - and that could be something of a problem. Costumed vigilantes walking through a swanky lobby to get to their penthouse lair?) But it's a nice place.

Just another reason why Oliver desperately needs Tommy. Why everyone needs Tommy. Tommy makes things lighter, in this case literally.

Once she has taken everything in, she shifts her eyes to the people in the room. Felicity Smoak, wearing pajama pants, a heavy wool sweater with animated cupcakes with faces sewn into the fabric, and bunny slippers, is sitting up on a desk, hair mussed, yawning, like she's just woken up even though it's almost two in the afternoon. Roy Harper is down on his hands and knees under the desk, fiddling with wires and listening to Felicity's instructions. John Diggle is just handing Felicity a steaming mug of coffee, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. And Oliver and Tommy are in the kitchen, bickering. They all look very much at home here.

Laurel feels like she's arrived at the Island of Misfit Toys.

It's extremely adorable.

She tightens her grip on her purse strap. She's not about to admit this but she always feels a little hesitant around these people. It's not that she dislikes anyone here. It's that she's not sure she has a place here. Also, she knows that there are certain members of this team who do not like her. For whatever reason. That much is obvious.

Felicity Smoak is, apparently, not one of them.

As soon as she sees Laurel standing there, she lets out a startled, ''oh'' and leaps off the desk. ''Laurel!'' In a quick flurry of blond hair and bunny slippers, she swats John on the shoulder, shoves her coffee at him, kicks at Roy's feet and pats down her hair, almost all at the same time. Like a tiny blonde tornado. She comes to a sudden stop in front of Laurel, reaching out a hand and then pulling it back, shuffling from foot to foot. ''Uh,'' she says. ''Laurel. How - Are you...'' She trails off. ''It's nice to see you,'' she finally settles on, and then she smiles.

It's quite possibly one of the sweetest, sincerest smiles Laurel has ever seen. She can't help but smile back. ''It's nice to see you too, Felicity.''

''I'm sorry about your husband,'' Felicity says, only to grimace as soon as she words leave her mouth. Her eyes widen behind her glasses. She looks like she's deeply regretting opening her mouth at all, so Laurel tries not to let her smile dim too much, even when her heart twists painfully in her chest at the mere thought of him.

Her fingers twitch, wanting to move to her stomach protectively but she stops herself. ''We weren't actually married,'' is what she says, ''but thank you.'' She reaches out to place her hand on Felicity's arm gently in thanks, or maybe reassurance, and Felicity relaxes a little, but still looks mildly nervous.

''Ms. Lance,'' John comes up to stand beside Felicity, close enough that their shoulders press together. His hand seems to instinctively move to the small of her back but when Felicity tenses briefly, he lets it fall away.

Laurel flicks her gaze over to Sara, who waggles her eyebrowe and inclines her head toward John and Felicity. She seems to be saying, _Yep, those two are definitely doing the do and everybody knows it. _Which. _Yeah_. No shit. Laurel barely knows these people and even _she_ gets that. She wonders, momentarily, if they actually believe they're fooling anyone. ''Please,'' she says. ''Call me Laurel.''

''Laurel,'' he amends. ''Good to see you,'' he says, offering Laurel his hand. She takes it. ''I was sorry to hear about your loss,'' he says. ''Tommy tells me he was a good man.''

There's a pressure building behind her eyes that she can't manage to blink away, but she still smiles weakly and croaks out, ''The best.''

Felicity starts to say, ''If you need anything - ''

''Laurel,'' a voice says, cutting Felicity off. As soon as Laurel turns around, she is wrapped up in one of those distinctive, snuggly Tommy Merlyn hugs. ''Thank God you're here. Oliver's being difficult.''

She manages a small laugh into his chest. ''Hi, Tommy.''

He pulls away from her and cups her face in his hands. ''How are you?'' His forehead is creased in worry and he's frowning deeply, looking her up and down. His eyes linger on the shirt she's wearing. It's Dean's. Tommy gave him this shirt for his birthday. It was super expensive. That was a weird thought she'd had this morning while she was getting dressed. She saw the shirt in the drawer and it occurred to her that he was never going to wear it again. And it was expensive. It was one of those ludicrous, somewhat shallow thoughts that you have after a tragic event, born out of shock and morbid grief. When someone dies, what happens to their belongings? Their clothes? Their shoes? That custom made leather jacket you got him last year? That new coffeemaker you were going to give him for Christmas?

So she threw the shirt on.

Her hands that have automatically moved to grip Tommy's shoulders tighten. ''I'm... I've been better.''

He nods, eyes bright. ''Yeah,'' his voice is hoarse. ''Yeah, I get that.'' He pulls her in for another quick hug and then presses a kiss to her forehead.

''Laurel.'' It's a new voice, quiet and hesitant. When she draws away from Tommy completely, Oliver is standing there, hanging back, like he's afraid to get close to her. ''Hi.''

''Hi, Ollie.''

Neither of them moves.

Oliver is the one who finally makes the move, closing the distance between them and pulling her in for a hug. It's kind of a strange hug, to be honest. He's overwhelmingly careful with her. Just like how Sara is overwhelmingly careful with her. He's treating her like she's fragile, grasp way too gentle, body pulled away from hers even as he hugs her, careful not to touch her - oh, holy crap, he knows. Wait. No. No, that's not possible. How could he know? She pulls away from him fast and meets his eyes, searching for something, anything, that will tell her if he truly does know.

''How are you holding up?'' He asks her, ignoring the way she's looking at him.

She decides to let it go. She'll ask him about it when she can get him alone but for now she trusts him to keep it to himself. ''I'm...here,'' she says, because that's all she can say.

''I'm glad,'' Ollie says. ''We need you.''

Probably the truest thing he's said to her in two years.

''Quite the place you've got here,'' she says. ''Nice decor. Very tongue in cheek.'' She looks at Tommy. ''Your doing?''

He shrugs. ''What can I say?'' He winks. ''I'm cheeky.''

''Well, it's definitely a step up.''

''Oh, I know. I couldn't take one more day in some dark cave.'' Tommy shakes his head. ''Honestly, I spend most of my nights in a dark club. I need some light in my life. All of these people need light. Look at Felicity,'' he gestures towards the blonde. ''She's all pasty. She needed sunlight. It's like Oliver thought he was running Angel Investigations or something.''

''In other words,'' Oliver wraps an arm around Tommy's shoulders. ''He's being Den Mother. I'm just rolling with it.''

''Yeah, and you better get used to it, buddy,'' Tommy says. ''Because Laurel's here now and she's pretty much the most maternal person I know. We're going to Mom the fuck out of you.''

Laurel's smile slips and she folds her arms over her stomach. They both seem to notice her change in posture because Tommy moves away from Oliver and starts to say something. She doesn't let him finish. ''So,'' she plasters on a smile. ''When do I get the grand tour?''

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After the tour, in an effort to put off the big talk, Laurel pulls Oliver aside and into one of the bedrooms.

For one weird, curiously uncomfortable moment, it sends her flashing back to when they were together. More often than not, it would be her who initiated the quickie in guest bedrooms or bathrooms. They'd be at a party, she would notice the way Ollie would look at other women; they way he'd politely agree to dance with the daughter of one of his father's investors only for his hands to slip lower on her body, the way his eyes would linger on cleavage, on legs, on backsides and short dresses. So she would hike up her dress for him behind closed doors and climb on top of him, get down on her knees for him in the dark, or, when she was feeling particularly sassy, push _him_ down between her legs.

She did it to remind him that he picked her. Why he picked her. Because that was who she was back then. She wanted so badly to believe that they were a fairytale in the making, that she was good enough, that she failed to notice he was not good enough. While she was stressing about being the perfect girlfriend, the perfect daughter, the perfect student, just _perfect_, she didn't notice the way Oliver was smiling devilishly at Sandra Hawke over his champagne glass, the way he and Max Fuller's fiancée whispered and giggled at that rehearsal dinner, the way he and Tommy would disappear every now and then and come back disheveled and grinning like fools, or, worse, the way Oliver and Sara would look at each other when her back was turned.

Things are different now. _She's_ different. Standing alone in a bedroom with him does not mean what it used to mean. She's got a fire in her chest and for right now, her mangled heart is wherever Dean is, but the rest of her is here, under no one's control but her own. She does not belong to anyone but herself. She is no caged bird. Laurel Lance will never get down on her knees for Oliver Queen again. History will not repeat itself.

It's so strange to think about those days. Sometimes she forgets how profoundly screwed up they all were back then. People tend to think that Oliver was the only one in their group (Oliver, Laurel, Tommy, Sara) who was fucked in the head, but he wasn't. He may have been the only who was the most outwardly screwed up and he may have been the only one who dealt with his fucked up life by peeing on cops, cheating on his girlfriend over and over again, and being an all around douchebag, but he was not the only one who was messed up. They all were.

That's one area where things haven't changed that much.

They were all entitled shitty teenagers who grew into fucked up self-loathing young adults and now they're traumatized, bitter, wrecked adults with pretty much zero self worth.

Maybe this is their punishment for spending their entire adolescence pretending they were in Gossip Girl.

''How are you?'' Oliver asks her, startling her out of her thoughts. ''Really.'' His voice is gentle but cautious, and he does not try to move towards her, allowing her her own space. She feels a little bit of the nervous tension drain from her. This is not the man who got on that boat. This is someone entirely different. Still everything her Oliver was, but better. _Better_, she reminds herself. Realistically, she has known this for awhile, but every now and then it will really hit her. This new Ollie has his flaws, and he can be shitty and problematic, but perhaps he is learning. Perhaps he is learning in ways the old Oliver never would have.

Perhaps, she thinks, with a shred of hope, ever the romantic, always willing to root for someone else's love story even after her own has come crashing down horrifically, this is an Oliver Queen who is finally worthy of Tommy.

Laurel takes a seat on the edge of the bed and leans her elbows on her knees. ''I...'' How is she supposed to answer that? She has no idea how she is. She just knows it hurts. ''I'm still breathing, aren't I?''

He shakes his head. ''That doesn't answer my question.''

She shrugs. ''It's the only answer you're going to get.''

Oliver moves closer to her, inching his way across the room to stand in front of her. He's trying to decide whether or not it's okay to sit down next to her, she can see it in his eyes. ''Laurel - ''

''I would've married him, Oliver.''

He noticeably bites back a grimace. Whether it's a grimace because Dean is dead and he is sorry or because of petty jealousy reasons, she has no idea. She hopes, for Tommy's sake, it's the former. He chooses to sit down next to her. ''I know,'' he says. ''I'm so sorry.'' The former then. Good. ''I - '' He stops. She watches him stare down at his hands. ''He loved you,'' he tells her, as if she somehow didn't already know that.

She smiles weakly. ''I know.''

They are silent for a moment. Ollie - bless him - keeps twitching, like he wants to touch her but he's not sure what would be appropriate. An arm around her shoulders? His hand on her knee? A forehead kiss?

She decides to save him from his misery and change the subject. ''How did you figure it out?''

''...Figure what out?''

She's not sure why she continues to be surprised by how bad he is at lying. ''I know you know I'm pregnant, Ollie,'' she says, giving him a pointed eyebrow raise.

He looks uncomfortable. He blows out a breath and looks up at the ceiling with a pleading look in his eyes. ''When I was at your place, the prenatal vitamins fell out of your bag when I picked it up.'' Of course. That's just the kind of luck she has. Also, she should really start taking those aforementioned prenatal vitamins. Sara's going to start hiding them in her food if she keeps forgetting. ''I wasn't snooping,'' he adds on quickly, holding his hands up. ''I swear. They fell out of your bag.''

''I believe you.''

''Do you know - ''

''I'm keeping it.''

He nods. He keeps nodding. He nods for a weird amount of time. He doesn't know what to say to her. She can see that in the way he won't meet her eyes. Nobody knows what to say to her. It's extremely obvious. Nobody knows what to say to the girl whose sister died, the girl whose boyfriend died while cheating on her, the girl who lost everything in the earthquake, the disbarred alcoholic, the woman who lost her not-husband, the pregnant widow. Nobody ever knows what to say to the victim, and that's what she is. It makes people uncomfortable. She could apologize and tell him he doesn't have to say anything, but she's not going to do that. It's not her fault life has screwed her over and it's not her problem if her victimhood makes people uncomfortable.

''Congratulations,'' Oliver finally says, with the smallest of smiles.

She falters. That's not the reaction she had been expecting. ''Thank you.''

''If you ever need _anything_, I'm here,'' he says. Slowly, he reaches forwards to put his hand over hers. ''I'm always here.''

That has not been her experience, especially not this past year, but it's still a nice thing to hear. ''You're sweet,'' she manages a weak smile.

''I mean it,'' he adds on.

''I know you do.'' She ducks her head, hair falling in her face. She thinks she'd like to believe him when it comes to this. She's going to choose to believe that he'll have her back when it comes to this - the pregnancy, the baby. She'd like so badly to believe she won't be doing this alone. She looks down at his hand covering hers and pinches her lips. ''Listen, Ollie,'' she gently pulls her hand out from underneath his. ''You and Sara are the only ones who know that I'm pregnant and I think I'd like to keep it that way. At least for a few more weeks.''

He holds his hands up. ''Your secret's safe with me,'' he assures her. ''I promise.''

She looks at him for a long time. She feels like there is more to be said between them - and there is. There always will be. Just not today. There are dark circles under his eyes, she doubts he's slept more than a couple hours in the past few days, he just lost his mother, and his sister is, apparently, not talking to him. Or anyone. Laurel, meanwhile, is pregnant, pretty much constantly nauseous, she is always tired, her father had a heart attack, and Dean is dead. Not today.

''Thank you,'' she tells him, rising to her feet. She opens her mouth to say, _I owe you one_, but she doesn't. She doesn't owe him anything. She keeps his secret, he keeps hers. They're even now. Or as even as they ever will be. She leans down to kiss him on the forehead. ''We should get back out there.''

.

.

.

Explaining the supernatural to Team Arrow isn't something she ever wanted to do.

Honestly, there are days when she would rather not know. Monsters and demons, angels and ghosts... They're all real, the monster is really standing in your closet and we all suspect it. When we see something out of the corner of our eye, when we hear a noise in the dark, the inexplicable feeling that someone is watching us, that something is under our beds and we have to keep our feet under the covers at all times. We all think, every now and then, _what if it's real?_ We all wonder. But we never really want to _know._

Unfortunately, they kind of _need_ to know.

The story of how they found out about the supernatural is, as these stories go, pretty darn anticlimactic, to be honest. It was a little disappointing.

The summarized version of events: Sebastian Blood.

The full story: Sebastian Blood was a vampire, which she really should have seen coming because his name was Sebastian _Blood_ (seriously, _his name was Sebastian Blood_ and he was a_ politician_, you people are all_ hopeless_) and when she couldn't get a hold of Dean or Sam, Laurel wound up having to chop his head off in front of Tommy, Oliver, Felicity and Diggle, which required explanation. ''You're not the only one who has secrets, Ollie,'' she had said, still holding the machete, dripping with blood and glinting in the moonlight. ''Also, monsters are real.''

So.

That was a thing that happened.

...No, really, that was an actual event that transpired. She can't believe it either.

Frankly, it was one of the most satisfying moments of her life. Not just because she got to play Buffy and slay a literal vampire, not just because she got revenge on Sebastian Blood, but because they were all there to see that she was right. They better damn well remember that moment the next time they try to gaslight her.

Oliver and his team, however, did not enjoy that moment nearly as much as she did. Felicity had a panic attack. John remained calm on the outside but it was blatantly obvious from the look on his face that he was internally screaming. Oliver let out this short but completely unsurprised sigh. Tommy, of course, already knew. He's known for years now.

The debriefing today goes about as well as you would expect it to. Laurel tries to be calm and as reassuring as possible, careful to tell them that aside from Sebastian Blood, there have rarely been any supernatural problems in Starling. She just wants them to be prepared. ''There's no need to panic,'' she says. ''This is just the world we live in and I want you to know what_ could_ happen. I'm not saying it_ will_ happen.''

Sara and Tommy, the only other people in the know, are right there with her, trying desperately to calm the group down because it's clear that Laurel's ''don't panic'' is having zero effect on them.

Felicity is freaking the fuck out, pacing and muttering, ''Vampires? _Vampires_!'' She throws her hands up in the air, exasperated. ''Now we're in Twilight. What even _is_ my life? How did I get here? Oh my god, I'm gonna die young. I am going to die young. I blame you for this, Oliver.''

John is making a valiant effort at staying calm but the second Laurel starts talking about demons - how to detect them, how to ward them off, how to fight them, holy water, exorcisms, possession - his eyes get wide.

Roy, who did not actually witness the demise of Sebastian Blood and his sharp teeth, is quite confident that Laurel is crazy.

Tommy says, ''Shut up, Roy,'' and pats him on the head affectionately.

Oliver, sitting on the couch, has his head bowed, most likely thinking intensely. When he looks up, he looks frustrated, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ''Why didn't any of you tell me about this crap?'' He asks, and Laurel sighs heavily. Oh, Ollie.

''Wasn't my secret to tell,'' Tommy shrugs, sipping at his coffee and looking decidedly unconcerned with the disapproving look he gets in return. ''Dean and Laurel didn't want you to know, so I didn't tell you. Don't get mad at me for keeping their secret when I've been keeping yours for over a year now.''

''Didn't seem relevant,'' Sara says.

Oliver looks straight at Laurel. ''Why didn't you tell me?'' Something about the way he's looking at her bothers her. He doesn't look angry. He looks disappointed.

Oh, hell no. ''Ollie,'' she sighs. ''Please tread carefully here. Are you sure you want to go there?''

''You should have told me.''

She takes a deep, calming breath. ''If you were in danger,'' she begins, ''I would have. If something put you in danger because of the secret I was keeping, I would have told you immediately. In fact, I did. The second you were put in even the hint of danger, I told you.'' She levels him with a carefully constructed blank expression. ''Should I continue? Or have I made my point?''

Oliver shrinks back against the couch.

Roy, who probably still thinks she's mostly insane, whispers, ''That was cool.''

Laurel smiles.

''Uh.'' John clears his throat. ''When you talk about demonic possession...''

''I mean full on possession,'' she nods. ''Yes.''

''A black cloud shoves itself down your throat and you're no longer in the driver's seat,'' Sara adds. ''I've never been through it myself, but I've seen it happen before. I've been told it's like torture.''

Laurel flinches. She scratches the back of her neck awkwardly, clearing her throat. She remembers, vividly, the feeling of having that black cloud enter her body against her will, against her screams, violating her from the inside. She remembers the feel of a knife in her hands, unable to control it. She remembers hearing her own voice cruelly taunting Dean. ''You're tougher than I thought you would be, Dean. Too bad you still can't save your girl.'' She remembers trying to scream, to move, to fight, to take back control of her body and push the demon out. She remembers the look on Dean's face when he realized what was about to happen. More than anything, she remembers the pain she felt when her own hands plunged the knife into her stomach and _twisted._

''It is,'' she admits softly, the words slipping out of her mouth before she can stop them. Everyone looks at her. She regrets saying it as soon as the words are out of her mouth. Other than her father, no one else in the non-hunting world knows about that particular incident. Nobody knows how close she came to dying, how the only reason she's even still here is because an actual angel healed her, how Dean almost left her because of the guilt he felt, and she prefers to keep it that way. Her possession was years ago and it's still a trauma that sneaks up on her, resulting in anxiety attacks and nightmares that have her screaming in the bed so loudly that her neighbors complain and thrashing so violently that Dean has to hold her down, trying to wake her up over her screams.

It's a trauma that doesn't go away. That doesn't mean she wants to share it. When she realizes that Sara, Tommy and Oliver are staring at her with honest to god horror on their faces, she does her best to shake it off, like she always does. She smiles; a gentle smile that is meant to be as comforting and disarming as possible. ''A story for another day,'' she says, brushing her hand over Sara's as she slowly moves past her. Another thing she regrets saying. It's an invitation to ask and they _will_ ask and when they do...

''You shouldn't worry about it,'' she tells John. ''Demonic possession is serious and usually requires drastic measures, yes, but there are ways to protect yourself.''

John perks up. ''Such as?''

''Anti possession tattoos.'' She draws in a deep breath. ''They're your best bet.''

Felicity pales at that. ''Tattoos?'' She squeaks. ''Like, with needles?''

''You're afraid of needles?'' Roy asks.

''I'm not afraid of needles,'' she insists. ''I'm totally fine with getting shots and giving shots and drawing blood and getting my blood drawn and holding needles and all of that. I'm just not sure I'm comfortable with _dragging a needle across my skin_. Oliver,'' she leans down over the back of the couch, chin resting on his shoulder. ''You have tattoos. Did they hurt?''

''Yes,'' he turns his head to look at her and Laurel notes the way John twitches and then pretends he didn't at the sight of Felicity and Oliver's close proximity. ''A lot.''

Felicity pulls back. ''Okay, well.'' She licks her lips. ''Thanks for sugar coating that for me.'' She shakes her head, teeth sinking into her lower lip nervously. ''I won't be able to be buried in the Jewish cemetery where my grandparents are if I get a tattoo.''

Laurel grimaces at that. ''There are charms,'' she says warmly. ''You can wear a bracelet. Or a necklace. Put them in your car, your house. Dean's mother had a charm bracelet. It was destroyed in the fire but Dean recreated it from memory and gave it to me on our first anniversary. If you'd prefer to wear that, I can - ''

''Yes!'' Felicity nods enthusiastically. ''Yes, yes, please!''

Laurel hesitates. ''All right,'' she says slowly. ''I can get you a bracelet. Or whatever you'd prefer. But you need to know that there are certain risks associated with that option. Jewellery can be yanked off. Tattoos can't. Think about that, okay?'' Felicity looks dejected, but she nods. ''They can, however,'' Laurel pulls up her sleeve and turns her wrist over to show them the nasty burn scar on the inside of her wrist. ''Be burned off. So avoid anywhere that clothing won't cover.''

''You told me that was from a kitchen accident,'' Sara murmurs.

''I did say that,'' Laurel agrees. ''I lied.'' It's actually from where Crowley burned off her tattoo with a hot poker so that one of his goons could get inside. ''You knew I was lying,'' she says to Sara, then glances at Oliver. ''So did you. You both thought Dean did it.'' The way she says it, so nonchalant and easy, appears to spook them. She feels a bit guilty about that but - hey. Serves them right. ''You think I didn't know what you thought of him?'' She questions lightly, as casually as asking about the weather. ''It never mattered,'' she shrugs. ''I knew who he was.'' Without waiting for an answer, she turns her attention back to the group. ''I can also teach you how to ward your home against demons and how to trap one. And salt. Keep a lot of salt on your house. That's a big one.''

''Salt?'' Roy echoes dubiously. ''Like table salt?''

''Any kind of salt. Table salt, sea salt, rock salt, Himalayan pink salt, whatever, just keep your place well stocked.''

He looks like he wants to say something, but he bites his tongue and looks away from her. The sound of a cell phone ringing breaks the palpable tension in the room. Sara tenses beside Laurel, fishing her phone out of her pocket. She relaxes ever so slightly when she checks the caller ID. ''It's Mom,'' she says. ''I'll be right back.''

Once Sara has excused herself to take the phone call, Laurel is left alone with Oliver and his Oliverettes. Tommy is staring at Oliver with thin lips and narrowed eyes, looking incredibly unimpressed with him. She can't say she's terribly surprised by that. The first year Ollie was back, Tommy spent a lot of his time trying to force him to let Laurel go and move on and to accept that Dean was a good guy who wasn't going anywhere. She suspects he hadn't known the extent of best friend's dislike of Dean. She suspects he might be worried that Oliver's dislike stems from jealousy.

Laurel had always known about the Oliver vs. Dean problem. It was obvious. Ollie and Sara never approved of Dean. They didn't trust him. They didn't trust him _with her_. She had always known that. She understands that the things they went through left them unable to fully trust people, she understands that they care about her and want to protect her, and she even understands that Dean is rough around the edges and sets off some internal alarm bells in people. But they never even gave him a chance. They just made up their minds about him right away. It frustrated Laurel to no end.

With Ollie, it didn't really matter, but with Sara... Laurel was determined to work at it. As soon as she and Sara made up, Laurel started making plans. How she was going to get Dean and Sara to bond, spend more time together, and learn enough about each other to at least forge a mutual trust. She was going to plan a big Winchester/Lance Thanksgiving dinner. All she wanted was for her family, her whole family, to be happy and together and maybe not kill each other, and she was going to make sure that happened.

She thought there would be more time to do that.

''Listen.'' She pauses, shaking her head, swallowing hard when they all look at her. Now, she's great at talking. She's a lawyer. Talking is her job. She can stand in front of a jury and present her closing argument. She can argue until she's blue in the face. This is different. She is literally changing these people's lives for the worst. She is standing in front of them tearing down the very notion of safety and telling them that the world is far more dangerous than they ever knew and the monsters under the bed are real. How do Dean and Sam do this on a regular basis?

Actually.

How _would_ Dean and Sam do this?

Laurel straightens, tilting her head to the side. She clears her throat. ''This sucks,'' she says bluntly. It gets their attention at least. ''It is complete and utter bullshit that these things exist,'' she shrugs. ''It is. I won't lie. I would give anything not to have to tell you this. Sometimes I wish I didn't know myself. But what you do,'' she locks eyes with Oliver. ''What you all do... You put yourselves in the shadows of this city every single day and the truth is - as unfortunate as it is - it's inevitable that you're going to stumble across something one of these days. I want you to be prepared. You all have work to do. You can't save this city if you're werewolf kibble.''

''So, you're going to teach us then?'' Oliver rises to his feet and moves closer to her. He towers over her, staring down at her with a small but ultimately warm smile. ''About all this? You're going to teach us to stay alive?''

She summons up the brightest smile she can manage. ''I'm certainly going to try,'' she says with a nod. ''Dean would've been better at this.''

''I think you're doing fine,'' he says, gently.

''Uh, yeah, besides,'' Tommy adds on, tipping his mug at her. ''Dean had the patience of a senile old man with a shotgun collection who thinks the tree branch tapping against the window is an intruder.''

Oliver's eyes slide upward briefly before he scrunches up his nose, turns and says, ''Tommy, _what_.''

''Why was that so specific?'' John asks.

''Dean was an older sibling,'' Laurel says, after Tommy shrugs unapologetically and sips at his coffee loudly. ''He has far more patience than you realize.''

''Laurel.''

The sound of Sara's voice sends her heart plunging into her stomach. Sara's voice is quiet and full of fear. It shakes, like she's on the verge of tears. Laurel spins around, so fast that her hair whips Oliver in the chest. Her tiny smile fades instantly at the sight of her sister standing there, eyes glassy, clutching her cell phone, looking shell shocked. ''Sara - ''

''It's Dad,'' Sara chokes out. ''Laurel... It's Dad.''

.

.

.

Laurel stares down into the cardboard cup full of cold tea. It's not that great. Her mother got it for her from the cafeteria before Laurel and Sara managed to convince her to go back to her hotel and rest because her hands were shaking so badly and she could barely keep her eyes open. The tea is watery and flavorless and doesn't taste at all like peppermint. It does nothing to soothe the constant nausea burning in her stomach or the tension in her shoulders.

She sighs tiredly and rises from her seat. She places her cup of tea down on the table in the corner of the room and glances up at the clock on the wall. She turns back around and takes a deep breath, hesitating before she takes a few steps towards the body in the bed. She's getting really sick and tired of having to see her father laid up in a hospital bed.

For as long as she can remember, her father has been larger than life. A solid presence in her life. A pillar. He was unstoppable. Invincible. As far as she was concerned, he was a real superhero. Nothing could bring him down. Now here he is, lying in a hospital bed, pale and looking, for all intents and purposes, lifeless, and all she can think is that he looks so small. He doesn't look like himself.

Every time life starts looking up for the Lance family, something happens. Tragedy _always_ strikes.

She takes her father's hand in her own and squeezes gently, just to let him know she's there. Behind her, there's a quiet movement and she turns to check on Sara. Her sister is still fast asleep, curled up in a chair in what looks like the world's most uncomfortable position.

Laurel looks back at her father. She can't do this. She can't lose another person. Dean died a week ago. She can't do this again. Especially not him. Not her dad. He's not perfect, she knows that. Lord knows he's made mistakes. But he's her dad. She needs her dad. He's the one who always finds his way back to her. No matter what. Plus, he's got a grandchild on the way and he doesn't even know. He was the one who, once he accepted Dean as a permanent member of the family, was always asking, ''So when are you two going to give me grandbabies? I'm going to need something to do when I retire.''

She chuckles at the memory and then has to press her lips together to stifle the sudden sob that is threatening to escape. There's another noise behind her. She whirls around, instinctively trying to compose herself in case Sara is awake. She's not. Sara is still sleeping, but she doesn't look comfortable. She looks cold. She has pulled her jacket up over her shoulders and she's shaking ever so slightly, a barely noticeable vibration that not a lot of people would be able to see. There's a frown on her face and she looks troubled, haunted, even in her sleep. Laurel peels off the oversized denim flannel shirt that she found in her car and threw on when she got cold earlier. Considering the size of it and that it's basically long enough to be a dress on her, she's going to go ahead and guess it's probably Sam's. There's also kind of a disconcerting blood stain on the bottom of it, but it's warm. Careful not to wake Sara, she drapes the shirt over her sister's prone form, pulling it up to cover her shoulders.

She stands straight, staring down at her sister. God, she looks so young. She _is_ young. Sara is so amazingly strong that sometimes she forgets how young she is. Twenty seven, just. Hell, sometimes Laurel forgets how young she is. She's not even thirty yet and she has lived through at least two lifetimes worth of pain and sorrow, so much that it makes her feel old. Her bones don't creak when she gets out of bed in the morning, not really, but she swears sometimes it feels like they do. And she's still here. (Dean, who lived through roughly six or seven lifetimes worth of suffering, is not. But let's not go there right now.)

Laurel crouches down in front of Sara and cautiously reaches out to brush a strand of Sara's blond hair out of her face.

When Sara was four years old and Laurel was six, their grandparents took them to Gotham to see a real live ballet. It was Swan Lake. Laurel enjoyed it. Sara, however, was utterly entranced.

A few days later, she decided she wanted to be a ballerina. She was sitting at the dinner table, swinging her feet and pushing her broccoli around on her plate, looking adorably deep in thought. Then, butting her way into their parents' conversation, she announced, ''I want to be a ballerina.'' At first, their parents thought it was just another phase. Like when she wanted to sell shoes or when she wanted to be a professional mascot.

It wasn't another phase.

One month after she said she wanted to be a ballerina, she took her first dance class. From that moment on, dancing was _it_ for her. It was what she wanted to do. It was who she wanted to be. She devoted every waking moment to the craft, only getting more and more intense as she got older. She studied it, she practiced it, she obsessed over it, she wanted it. More than anything, she_ wanted_ it. Laurel could see the steely determination and the blatantly obvious hunger in her sister's eyes. Sara was going to be a ballerina. From day one, sitting at that dinner table, Laurel was her biggest cheerleader. She took dance classes with Sara for the first few years (and then eventually quit when it started interfering with her studying and her gymnastics), she practiced with her, she let her ramble on and on about the history of dance, she went to every recital to help her with her hair and her outfit...

Their parents supported Sara's dream, but Laurel was the dance mom, clapping the loudest and pushing her way to the front of the crowd of parents to snap pictures.

Eventually, Sara was accepted into Julliard on a partial scholarship. Laurel (who had gotten into Harvard but instead opted to go to Starling City University so that Sara could leave and there would still be someone to take care of their ailing grandparents) couldn't have been prouder. Sara, if Laurel had anything to say about it, would never stop dancing. And she didn't.

Until everything was stripped away that one long weekend with that one stupid mistake. The boat went down. Sara never danced again. There are times when, even though she loves him, Laurel can't help but regret bringing Oliver Queen into their lives. Sara would be a world famous ballerina by now, Laurel is sure of it.

She's not sure what makes her think of that tonight, sitting in the dark, watching Sara sleep, but the thought just sort of slams into her. She used to watch her sister dance her heart out and it has suddenly occurred to her that she hasn't seen Sara dance since she came home. She wonders if she even still dances. Oh, she hopes she does. There has to be something left from the good life they once lived.

''L-Lau...Laurel?''

She whirls around, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. ''Daddy.'' Her father's eyes are open, staring up at the ceiling, confused and scared. One of his hands is clenching and unclenching, like he's reaching for her. For one brief moment, she doesn't want to go to him. She hadn't been expecting him to wake up. She hadn't been expecting to have to see that fear in his eyes. To hear his voice, so slurred and unlike him. She snaps out of it quickly because her feelings really don't matter here, and scrambles to his side as Sara blinks her eyes open. ''Daddy,'' she smiles, searching blindly for his hand and clutching it tight. ''Hi.'' Her eyes start to water. Her father's grip is tight, almost too tight, and his breathing is speeding up. He's panicking.

''Dad,'' Sara's voice is raspy and half asleep but her movements are nimble and graceful as they always are as she races to the other side of the bed.

''Wh...Wha...'' His eyes widen in terror and quickly fill with tears, probably because he's realized that he can't speak. Can't make his mouth work the way it should.

It's nothing to be too worried about, she knows that. His body has been through a lot and he's on a lot of medication. Still. Laurel's heart is pounding in her chest and she's biting down on her lip hard to keep from sobbing. His grip is tightening and releasing methodically. She tries to be glad that at least he still has the strength to hold her hand like this.

''Dad, it's okay,'' Sara is saying. Her voice is not nearly as calm as she probably wants it to be. It's shaking. ''It's okay. It's okay. Just calm down. Don't try to talk.''

''We're here,'' Laurel tells him. ''Just try to breathe, okay?''

''I...'' His voice sounds weak, barely above a whisper, and it's slurred. This is not her father. It can't be.

''Ssshh, don't try to talk,'' Laurel murmurs.

''You had a heart attack,'' Sara says, softly but bluntly. Laurel wraps both of her hands around his and holds on for dear life. ''Do you remember?'' Sara asks.

Their father, or the stranger wearing his face, looks terrified.

''Dad,'' Laurel's voice wavers a little, but it's firm. ''Look at me.'' She falters momentarily when he does, because he just looks so scared. ''You are going to be okay,'' she says. It's a promise. ''Things... Things got bad,'' she whispers. ''But they're going to get better. This is a setback, nothing more.'' It's a lie. Technically. It's...more than a setback. His heart is damaged. It wasn't even because of the accident or because of a blood clot. His heart has been damaged for years. He's been on the verge of a massive coronary for years. And nobody noticed. (Laurel is going to sue his GP.) One of the nurses told her that if he hadn't been in the hospital when it hit, he might not have survived. The doctors are talking about bypass surgery. About changing his lifestyle. About retiring. About around the clock care. ''You are _going_ to recover. Do you hear me?''

He manages a nod. It makes pride swell in her chest. Immediately after his heart attack, he couldn't do that. He seems to be calming down slightly, although there is still fear and devastation clear in his eyes. She can't blame him for that. Life as he knew it has basically ended. ''You're going to be okay, Dad,'' she tells him. ''You stay here, all right? You stay here with me.'' He nods again and squeezes her hand. She smiles tenderly and leans in to kiss his forehead. ''Rest,'' she whispers. ''You're doing so great, but right now all you can do is rest.''

He rests.

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In the brightly lit hallway, Laurel is doing her best not to throw up all over the shiny waxed floors.

As soon as she steps out of her father's room, she releases a shaky breath and squeezes her eyes shut. She runs her hands through her hair and tries to calm her pounding heart. Her father had a heart attack. Quentin Lance had a heart attack. He was supposed to be invincible.

_Dean was supposed to be invincible, too_, a voice in her head says, which makes the bile rise in her throat.

''Laurel,'' Sara tries. Her voice is tentative, and she's wringing her hands nervously.

''I need some air,'' Laurel rasps, side stepping her sister when she tries to reach out for her.

''I'll come with you.''

''No.'' Laurel holds her hand up and backs away when Sara tries to step towards her. ''No.'' As much as she loves her sister and as grateful as she is for her presence right now, she needs some breathing room. Sara is a lot like their father. She means well but she's a bit of a hoverer. ''Sara, please. I just need a minute, okay? I'll be right back.''

She's gone before Sara can protest.

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Once she's alone, outside in the cool night air, Laurel allows herself to give in.

She hasn't done this since the night he died. She's thought about it but she hasn't been able to pluck up the courage. Maybe courage isn't the right word. Maybe it's more of a weakness. She knows a lot of people who would call it a weakness. Whatever it is, she hasn't allowed herself to even think about it.

Today, her father had a heart attack. A week ago, she found out she was pregnant but before she could tell her significant other about the aforementioned pregnancy, he was brutally murdered. Before that, her father had massive internal bleeding and almost died. Right before that, both she and Tommy were taken hostage by a psychopath who nearly destroyed Starling City all because he wanted to hurt Oliver. And that is just this week.

If this is a weakness, it is one she has earned.

Laurel walks swiftly away from the entrance to the hospital. She gulps in the fresh air desperately and turns the corner, away from the people milling around the entrance. She leans back against the wall, swallowing hard.

When her father was in the hospital right before Christmas, when Lucas Hilton was killed, she called Dean on her way to the hospital, barely coherent and in tears because what she had been told over the phone sounded so much worse than it actually was. He promised her he would be there as soon as he could. She figured that would mean at least day and a half, more than likely two days. So imagine her surprise when, just as dawn was breaking, she woke up, curled in a hospital chair beside her father's bed, and found a familiar jacket draped over her and Dean sleeping in the chair next to her. For a moment, she was sure she was dreaming. She curled her fingers around the jacket just to make sure it was real.

As quietly as she could, she rose from her seat. ''Dean,'' she whispered. She brought her hand to his face gently. ''Dean, sweetheart, wake up.''

He didn't wake up as peacefully as she hoped he would, jerking awake, hand shooting out to clamp around her wrist. She gasped, startled, and fought back a grimace at the grip. He must have seen it through his bleary eyes because he dropped her hand instantly and stared at her, suddenly wide awake. ''Laur?''

''Ssshh,'' she put a finger to her lips. She tugged at his hand and he rose to his feet, following after her, still holding onto her hand loosely. As soon as they were in the hallway, she blurted out, ''How did you get here so fast?''

He shrugged, scrubbing a hand over his face. ''I caught the first flight available.'' He said it so casually, like it was nothing, something he did all the time and not something he was utterly terrified of.

She had stared at him, too tired to form coherent thoughts and too tired to even try. ''You...'' She had to stop and push back the sudden ache in her throat. ''You flew?''

''Wasn't a big deal.'' He cleared his throat. ''I needed to be here,'' he told her, ''so I got here.''

The feeling that washed over her could only be described as the most powerful feeling of relief she had ever experienced. For a moment, however brief it was, she stepped into his arms, burrowing into his chest where she could pretend she was safe, and let him take the crushing weight off her back. They had been together for almost five years at that point and it still genuinely surprised her when she remembered that she didn't have to carry every burden alone.

Dean is not here tonight.

He can't wrap her up and protect her from the hurt with his warm arms. He can't hop in his car and promise to be there as soon as he can. He can't fly home to her. He can't take any of the weight off. He's gone. He's gone and he's not coming back. She'll have to settle for echoes.

Laurel fishes out her phone with shaking hands and, against her better judgment, plays the last message.

_''Hey, pretty bird.''_ There's this moment, when she first hears his voice, where everything just stops. She holds her breath, she stands frozen in the dark, and she thinks her heart might literally skip a beat. She's missed the sound of his voice. _''My girl...''_ She pulls the phone away from her ear and can't listen to the rest of the message. She's about five seconds away from choking on full blown hysteria and grief. She needs to focus on breathing.

She used to do this all the time. Call him just to hear his voice. He used to do the same, but he was far less open about it. When he would call, even if it was the middle of the night and his voice was trembling from pure exhaustion, he would say he was just calling to check in, to let her know he was alive, to make sure she was okay, to remind her that they needed milk. When he did call her, she would stay on the line with him for as long as it took to get his voice to stop shaking or for him to make a stupid joke. When she called him, she was always incredibly open about her intentions. ''I just really needed to hear your voice,'' she would say, and he would talk.

He was never so overly soothing that it made her feel like a child for calling and he wasn't impatient and gruff. He would just say, ''Okay,'' and he would talk. About random things; the hunt he had just come home from, the weird crap they kept finding in the Men of Letters bunker (''What's so special about a Faberge egg?'' ''I don't know, Dean, but it you found it in the Men of Letters secret stash, maybe you shouldn't touch it.''), the recipe she wanted him to teach her when he got home, _has Thea dumped that loser yet?_

It helped. Every time it helped.

She scrolls through her saved voicemails until she finds one from last year. She isn't sure why she's kept this message for so long. She just knows that he's laughing in it. Maybe she's just a sentimental fool. She plays the voicemail. _''Laur, babe, it's me,''_ he sounds lighter, happier, so close to being genuinely carefree. There's shuffling in the background and voices from somewhere in the distance. _''You're probably still at CNRI. I should try you there.''_

There's an uproar of laughter and then Charlie's muffled voice says, _''Simmer down! My handmaiden's talking to the Mrs!''_

A dismayed male voice cries out, _''You're married?!''_

Dean laughs, loudly, so genuine that she can see his full body laughter vividly, behind her eyelids. _''Sorry, man,''_ he says, _''I'm taken.''_ She smiles. It hurts at first, feels stiff and awkward on her face, but then she's smiling so hard it hurts and Dean's laughing and there are tears in her eyes. A watery laugh pushes through her lips. It's a strange voicemail to keep, especially considering she's quite certain that everyone is drunk, celebrating their LARPing victory. To her, he says, _''I know I said we were gonna be home by Thursday but it's lookin' more like we won't be home until Saturday night. Probably late, so don't wait up but also maybe don't smash a vase over my head again when I come in.''_ He laughs again. (Yes, definitely drunk. But happy.)

_''Dean!''_ That's Sam's booming voice, heard above the chatter in the background.

_''All right, all right, I'm comin'! Jesus. See you soon, pretty bird.''_

The voicemail ends on another laugh.

Laurel is left with a hollow, aching feeling in her gut, still craving the sound of his voice. She plays the message again. Then again. And again. It's still not enough. Her finger hovers over speed dial number two. Would his phone even still be in service? Would any of his phones still be in service? Has Sam cancelled them yet? Is that something she's supposed to be doing? She presses the call button before she can stop herself. It rings and rings and rings. It keeps ringing. She starts to wonder if he'll pick up. Then -

_''This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do.''_

Disappointing. Crushingly disappointing. She's not sure why. Of course he's not going to answer. He's dead. A choked, strangled sob rips its way out of her painfully and she claps a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream of anguish. She ends the call. She leans back against the wall of the hospital building and closes her eyes. As dark as this line of thought may be, it's times like these that she wishes, selfishly, that giving up could be an option for her. She's miserable. She's in agony, she's been in agony for a long time, and it doesn't ever end. Things would be so much easier if she could just stop. If she could just rest. It's not that she wants to die. She _doesn't_ want to die. Not anymore anyway. She just doesn't want to be in pain anymore. But giving up is not an option. She's going to be a mother. She is a sister and a daughter, and there are people who need her. She doesn't get to go anywhere.

She breathes deeply.

She calls him back.

_''This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do.''_

She releases a breath. Her mouth works silently, trying to come up with something to say. ''Come home,'' she pleads. Her voice cracks. She decides she doesn't care. She's emotional. So what? That doesn't mean she's not strong. She cries a lot. She's allowed to. At least she's still here. She got out of bed this morning. She's sober. She is stronger than most people ever could be. Her grief is not a weakness. Her emotions are not a weakness. ''Dean, come home.'' She sniffles, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''My dad had a heart attack,'' she says breathlessly. ''He...'' She shakes her head, pressing her lips together. ''Please,'' it comes out in a moan and her stomach turns at the sound. ''Please.'' Her unsteady legs finally give out and she slides to the ground, voice strained from trying to keep the sobs in. ''Please come home. I need you.''

She wants to tell him to be home by Wednesday because that's when her first doctor's appointment is. She wants to tell him that she needs help. She wants to tell him how angry she is. Because she is angry. In between the grief over losing him and the gratefulness that she even got to have him for five years, there is anger. She's angry that he died. She's angry at that asshole angel for murdering him. She's angry at Sam for treating him the way he did in the months before his death. She's angry at herself for not trying harder to save him. She's angry she's going to have to raise this baby all by herself and that he or she will never know him. She's angry at him for leaving her. She's angry at him for accepting the Mark. She's just _angry._ And she's sad and she's lonely and she's losing it. She wants to tell him all of this, but she can't. She can't make the words come out of her mouth. She can't bring herself to yell.

''Please,'' she says again. It's all that comes out. It's the only thing that keeps coming out. Over and over again in pathetic, tearful squeaks and moans. ''Please, please, please, please.'' The phone beeps in her ear, cutting off her last plea and she's left with silence.

Dean doesn't call her back.

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What was the last thing I said on the phone?  
>Was it, <em>I love you?<em> Was it, _I'll see you soon?_

SARAH KAY | JETLAG

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**end chapter three**

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><p><strong>AN: I didn't realize how exposition-ey this chapter was until I was editing it, but hey. Every story has one, right? It was just really important for Team Arrow to know at least the basics of the supernatural world - demons, especially - before the shit hits the fan.<strong>

**Also, wow, it was so hard to describe their new digs. I can see the penthouse in my head, I know the layout, I have thought surprisingly hard about this penthouse, and yet it was so hard to describe.**


	4. FORGET THE DRAGON

_AN: I'M A DAY LATE! I'M SO SORRY!_

_Additional warnings: Okay, so there are actually a few potentially triggering things that I feel the need to warn for in this chapter. One: This chapter briefly involves a character inducing vomiting, so if that's the kind of thing you're uncomfortable with, I'd advise you to skip the second scene in this chapter. Two: At the beginning of this chapter, there is a scene that borders on physical abuse, although the abuser does not know what they are doing and has no control over it. Three: Near the end there is a scene in which one character is fearful of the possibility of future sexual assault. Four: This is already tagged as a warning and everything but suicidal thoughts pops up a lot for one specific character._

**Disclaimer:** I own none of the characters you recognize.

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><p><strong>the lovers left broken<strong>

_Written by Becks Rylynn_

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><p>.<p>

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**Chapter Four**

_FORGET THE DRAGON_

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If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next - if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions - you'd be doomed. You'd be ruined as God. You'd be a stone. You'd never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You'd never love anyone, ever again. You'd never dare to.

MARGARET ATWOOD | THE BLIND ASSASSIN

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The last time she was in the bunker, she was getting better and Dean was getting worse. He was deteriorating, breaking apart, splintering and cracking slowly but steadily; barely sleeping, barely eating, and the part that made her want to scream was that _no one was helping him_.

Cas was gone, Sam was spiteful, Laurel was trying but she couldn't hold him up, and Dean was...

Well, Dean was dying.

She realizes that now.

At the time, she had thought she was just waiting for him to hit bottom and decide he wanted to be pulled from the fire. It was what had happened to her. She had hit bottom and was just beginning to claw her way back up and he had helped her. When the time came, she told herself, she would help him. She would pull him from the fire, hold him up in the water, stick her fingers down his throat to get him to vomit up the pills, yank the gun out of his mouth. She would do anything for him. But he had to _want_ it first. That was just how these things worked. She hadn't known that it was already too late to save his life. There would be no pulling him from the fire.

He was already burning.

Her first full day in Kansas was spent simultaneously trying to patch up the relationship between Dean and Sam at least enough so that she could trust Sam with Dean's life again (not that she would ever tell him that she didn't, she felt bad enough just thinking it) and shield them from each other's bullshit. It didn't work. Sam wound up storming away from the dinner table - he sure did storm away a lot - and Dean went to bed early and without eating, kissing her on the side of the head and murmuring, ''You just keep tryin' to change the world, honey, don't worry about us.''

She was left alone at the table, mildly irritated and extremely disheartened.

When she crawled into bed, Dean was already asleep, passed out on his stomach, arms curled around his pillow. She swallowed a sigh of relief. Thank God. He hadn't gotten _any_ sleep the night before. He had tossed and turned all night long, scratching at the Mark on his arm and waking her up regularly, until he finally gave up and got out of bed at four thirty. Instead of sleeping, she put her glasses on and cracked open the book she had been meaning to read, determined to watch over him. Just in case.

It didn't work.

She woke up at three in the morning with her book on her chest, her glasses still on, and _alone_. His side of the bed was empty.

Probably shouldn't have been surprised.

Eventually, after checking the kitchen, the library and the garage, she found him in the shooting range. In hindsight, because it was Dean, it probably should have been the first place she checked. He was standing there, calmly and methodically loading a gun. She hovered in the doorway, propped up against the wall, and watched him. He moved with a careful, cutting sort of precision that was meant to cover his exhaustion. He had been there for a long time.

She sighed. Well, hey. At least he was wearing proper eye and ear protection. She'd had to practically beg the boys to get with it when it came to that stuff. It was a miracle they both still had their hearing. Not using protection out in the field was one thing, but in a firing range with the echo and everything? Honestly, what would they do without her? They'd be well on their way to deafness, that's what.

Dean aimed at the target, finger poised on the trigger...and he didn't fire. He tilted his head to the side, narrowed his eyes, looking like he was just itching to pull the trigger, and then he let out a long, slow breath and put the gun down. He pulled off the glasses and slipped the muffs around his neck, staring down at the gun. ''Go back to sleep, Laur,'' his voice was hoarse. ''It's late.''

She pushed off the wall and took a few hesitant steps towards him. When he didn't move, didn't even look at her, she picked up her pace. ''If I wanted to go back to an empty bed, I'd go back to Starling,'' she said.

''Maybe you should.'' He took off the muffs and placed them over her ears before snatching up the goggles and placing them over his eyes. ''Can't imagine you're having much fun here.'' Without warning, he picked up the gun and fired. She jumped, startled, hands automatically going to her ears, clapping the muffs tighter over her ears. She resisted the urge to snap at him about _protection, god, Dean, how many times do we have to have this conversation?_

''I didn't come here to have fun,'' she said. ''I came here to be with you.''

He turned to face her for the first time, arching an eyebrow, tiny, fleeting smirk pulling at his lips. ''That's flattering.''

She was too busy staring at his red rimmed eyes to come up with a wittier comeback. ''You know what I mean.''

He let out a weary sigh and put the gun back down. He braced himself against the cubicle, eyes drifting shut for barely a second before they snapped open again like he had seen something behind his eyelids that he didn't want to see. He clenched his jaw.

Despite the fact that she knew precisely what his answer would be, she couldn't help but ask the question. ''Dean,'' she moved her hand to his back. ''Are you okay?''

''I'm fine,'' was his immediate, slightly snarled response.

She narrowed her eyes. _Liar._ She stared at his profile for a long moment, studying his jaw line and the curve of his nose, his eyelashes and his lips, and then, when he stood straight, she looked at his hands. All of the frustration that had been mounting disappeared, replaced by a very familiar, all consuming worry. ''Honey,'' she reached over to close her hands around his. ''Your hands are shaking.''

He didn't look at her. ''I'm tired.''

It was a half truth, at best. She had no doubt he was tired but that was far from the main issue here. The main issue was that ugly red thing on his arm that was changing him, draining him, warping him into something he didn't want to be, and slowly killing him from the inside out. She said, ''So go to sleep.''

He turned on her, quite viciously, shoving her hands away but grasping her wrists tightly before she could pull them away. His grip was uncomfortably tight, almost vice like, and she fought hard not to wince. There would be bruises, she knew that. She did her best not to react. She didn't gasp in fright or grimace in pain. He glared at her, stepping into her personal space, towering over her, still clutching her wrists. ''I _can't_ sleep.'' There was a cold, hollow sort of anger gleaming in his eyes and a scowl playing on his lips. Vaguely homicidal would be one way to describe it. Absolutely positively not the man she fell in love with would be another.

The man grasping her wrists was not Dean Winchester. The man glaring down at her almost blankly was Cain.

Laurel often wondered if she would be able to protect herself from the supernatural world. She had done it before, but she had never done it alone. Dean was always there, right by her side. She wondered, constantly, if she was cornered by something, if she was alone, no Dean, no Sam, would she be able to protect herself? It was one of those random thoughts that popped into her head every now and then, usually if she was walking home late at night by herself, or if she heard a noise in her empty apartment while Dean was out of town and not lying in his usual spot in the bed, the spot closest to the door because yes, he was that guy. That night, for the first time, she wondered if she would be able to protect herself from Dean.

It was a truly devastating thought.

Calmly, without so much as a nervous intake of breath, she locked eyes with him and said, plainly, ''Let go of me.''

He did. _Instantly._

There was a flicker of something, of warmth, in his eyes and then he realized what he was doing. The cold rage dissipated and he all but threw himself away from her, eyes widening in horror. He looked at her wrists. There was a painful second of silence and then, ''Laur.'' His voice sounded like there were rocks in his throat. ''Laurel...'' When his eyes flicked towards the gun, just briefly, she made her move, practically diving at it, snatching it up before he could. She didn't like the way he looked at that gun. Like it was a means to an end. She pressed the small button next to the trigger and pulled the magazine out, before gripping the slide, pointing the gun at the ground, and pulling it back. The bullet that was in the chamber fell to the ground noisily. She pulled back one more time just to make sure and then she put the gun back down, behind her, out of his reach. She hesitated a moment before she looked at him and immediately felt guilty for hesitating.

His eyes, which had been trained on the gun, met hers. She had opened her mouth to say something but the second she saw the look in his eyes, the words died in her throat. He looked terrified. She had only ever seen that amount of sheer terror in his eyes once before. She took a step toward him, but he darted back, holding a hand out in front of him to keep her at bay. ''Don't.''

She did as she was told, stopping in her tracks. ''Dean...''

''I-I didn't...'' He looked like he was going to throw up. He shook his head, forehead creased in a strange mixture of confusion, fear and grief. ''I didn't mean to...'' He trailed off and swallowed hard. ''I'm sorry.''

There was a lump in her throat. ''I know.''

''Did I hurt you?'' His voice was surprisingly level.

She shook her head. ''No.''

''You're lying.''

''I'm not.''

He didn't look convinced. He looked down at the Mark on his arm. He wasn't looking at her when he said, ''I'm sorry,'' but his voice cracked.

She couldn't stop herself. She rushed forward to wrap her arms around him. ''I know.'' She leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, then his other cheek, then his forehead, and his nose. ''I know, baby. It's okay.'' She ran her fingers through his hair, speaking in low, soothing tones. ''I'm okay.'' His shoulders relaxed slightly and he wound his arms around her, returning the hug. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and let out a shaky breath. She pulled away from him first, still running her fingers through his hair comfortingly. She wanted to make it better for him. She wanted to make him better. She wanted to help him. He had helped her. He had stayed by her side while she was detoxing. He held her hair back for her when she couldn't keep her food down, wrapped her in blankets when she was shaking, stayed awake and watched her while she slept in case she choked on her own vomit or had a seizure in her sleep. She wanted to be able to help him like he helped her, like he was still helping her. But she couldn't. She couldn't help him with this. She wasn't entirely sure anyone could help him with this.

That didn't mean she wasn't going to try.

She offered him the biggest smile she could muster up and placed her hand on his cheek. He leaned into her touch like he was drowning and she was dry land, all long sighs and closed eyes. It was one of the things that never changed. Dean Winchester was eternally touch starved. He craved touch almost more than he craved alcohol and it was one addiction she was perfectly willing to indulge. Sure, five years of her hands on his body every chance they got didn't make up for the bad childhood, the decades of loneliness and the lack of tenderness, but that was okay. They would get there eventually.

She smiled at him again and tried to make it as bright and as cheerful as possible, like nothing was wrong, in an effort to alleviate the tension and the nearly tangible sorrow. ''You're getting scruffy again,'' she said lightly, gently raking her nails down the stubble on his cheek.

''You think I should grow it out again?'' He asked, with a half hearted smirk. He caught her hand before she could pull it away, suddenly, and she quickly managed to push back a flinch. He didn't notice, brushing his lips across her knuckles. She still got butterflies in her stomach whenever he did that.

''Well,'' she snaked her arms around his neck and pressed her body into his. ''You know how I feel about your beard.''

He laughed, or at least tried to, and pushed her glasses up on her nose. ''And you know how I feel about your glasses. I'll grow out my beard if you wear your glasses more often.''

''Hmmm. Tempting.'' She leaned up on her tiptoes and caught his lips in hers. She meant for it to be a sweet, chaste, almost teasing sort of kiss. Dean, apparently, had other ideas. When she started to pull away, he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, cupping her cheek with one hand and deepening the kiss. His hands felt their way to the hem of her shirt and slipped up, warm hands splayed across her bare skin. ''Hey, listen,'' she whispered, voice throaty, when he had to pull away to catch his breath. ''You know you're going to be okay, right?'' She rested her forehead against his, both of them breathless from the kiss. ''I know you,'' she said. ''I've lived with you for the past five years. You always make it out. You always survive. You can survive this.''

He didn't respond to that, but he did say, in this quiet raspy murmur, barely audible, noticeably trembling, ''Pretty bird, I love you.''

She thinks, now, that that might have been the moment she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind. It was certainly the moment he knew. Dean Winchester doesn't say 'I love you' unless he's saying goodbye. But that night, desperate to believe that he would be okay, that he would stay with her, that the mark on his arm wasn't slowly taking him away, she ignored the sadness settling into her bones and she kissed him.

And, you know, it's kind of funny.

She had been so preoccupied with the proper eye protection, the proper ear protection, so adamant that protection should always be used, and yet she never once - not when the kiss of comfort became something frenzied and desperate, not when her back hit the wall, not when he tugged down her underwear - gave any thought to any other kind of protection.

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In the days that pass, Dean's death becomes something of a ghost.

It follows her wherever she goes and refuses to leave her alone. Dean is the shadow in her empty bedroom at night; he is the unseen presence behind her at the Arrow penthouse, while she's visiting her father. He is the creaking floorboards at night, the constant ache in her chest, the hole in her heart, and he won't leave her be. He is that nagging voice in the back of her head, laughing, always laughing, asking, _How much do you miss me, pretty bird?_

The night of her father's heart attack, the night she begs him to come home, she goes back to her empty apartment and she digs out her safety net. In the back of her closet, in a box of Christmas decorations, there is a bottle of pinot noir, waiting for her to fail and come running. When she first decided to get sober, all of the alcohol was removed from her apartment. Except this one bottle. She got to it before Dean did, hiding it away where she knew he would never look. She hasn't looked at it since. It's just nice to know it's there. In case she needs it.

After Sara finally falls asleep on the couch, Laurel locks herself in her room, cracks open the bottle, and pours herself a glass.

She hesitates.

_How much do you miss me, pretty bird?_ Dean asks.

Laurel drinks the wine. She polishes off two and a half glasses of the dark red liquid and is just starting a third, feeling not quite buzzed but getting there, when she thinks of the baby. It has taken her two and a half glasses of wine - and they're not particularly small glasses either - to even think of her baby. Isn't that pathetic? God, she's going to be a horrible mother. Her entire body goes cold and she practically slams the glass down onto her bedside table, so hard the deep red sloshes over the rim. Even though she knows, logically, that two glasses of wine most likely won't have that much of an adverse effect on her baby, she still panics. She does that from time to time. There is very little logic in panic.

She staggers out into the kitchen, fumbling around, clumsily pulling apart the pantry until she finds the box of table salt.

Once, when she was in college, there was a serial rapist on the loose in Starling City. He was targeting pretty brunettes around her age. Her father became rather obsessed with the case, paranoid that she was in danger. That was when she started going to self defense classes. He wanted her to be safe, so he taught her a few tricks. For if she ever suspected she had been roofied.

She mixes three tablespoons of salt with warm water, stirs it up quickly, just enough so that all the salt is dissolved, and then she pinches her nose and gulps it down.

''Laurel?''

Sara is standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Laurel has flashbacks of seven year old Sara, standing in her bedroom doorway in the middle of the night, rubbing her eyes and clutching that stuffed shark to her chest. ''Laurel?'' She would whisper. ''Are you awake? I had a bad dream and there's a monster in my closet.''

Laurel would pull back the covers and say, ''C'mere, Sare-bear. There are no monsters here.''

''Sara,'' Laurel mumbles. She turns away from Sara and braces herself against the sink, squeezing her eyes shut. Well, great. Yet another humiliating moment witnessed by someone she loves. She licks her lips. Whatever. She doesn't really have the energy to think about that. There's still a bottle of wine sitting on her dresser and she needs it gone because if it's there when she gets back, she will drink it. She's always prided herself on her remarkable self control but that goes right out the window when alcohol is involved. That's what being an alcoholic is. ''Sara, I need you to go - '' She stops, gritting her teeth. She has about ten seconds of teeth clenching discomfort, just enough time to think about how this is definitely going on the list of her top five lowest moments, and then she's lurching forwards and vomiting salt water and red wine into the sink.

She hears Sara swear behind her. She is at Laurel's side in an instant, gathering her hair from her face and rubbing her back. She pretty much blatantly ignores the way Laurel tenses at the touch and starts to murmur something sweet and comforting, but then she sees the red. ''Oh, god, Laurel. Laurel, is that blood?'' When Laurel heaves again, bringing up more red wine, Sara's entire body goes absolutely rigid. ''Okay,'' she actually sounds scared. ''Okay, we need to get you to the hospital.''

''It's red wine,'' Laurel manages to croak out. ''There's - There's a bottle in my room. On my dresser.'' With the hand that isn't holding her hair back, she points blindly in the direction of her bedroom. ''I need you to get rid of it.''

Sara is quiet. Her hand falls away from her sister's back.

Laurel clears her throat, clenching her teeth and waiting for the next wave.

''Laurel,'' Sara says, lowly.

''Sara, please.'' Then she retches again. The_ please_ is probably what gets Sara to reluctantly leave her side. Laurel hovers over the sink, clutching the countertop so tightly her knuckles are white. She gags a few more times and then turns on the tap, splashing her face with cold water. She still doesn't move. When she's finally confident that she's not going to throw up again, she turns off the faucet and sinks to the ground. ''I'm sorry,'' she breathes out, placing a hand on her belly. ''I'm so sorry.'' She can feel her face crumple but she refuses to let herself cry. ''I'm trying,'' she says. ''I'm trying so hard.'' She doesn't know what else to say.

She leans her head back against the cupboard door and stares up at the ceiling. The bitter taste in her mouth is disgusting and her throat is raw. She no longer feels pleasantly buzzed or comfortably numb. She just feels guilty and sick and shaky from panic. ''Please be okay,'' she whispers. She lifts her eyes. ''Please...'' She trails off, lets out a sigh, and presses her lips together tightly. ''Please don't let me lose this one, too.'' She has no idea who she's talking to.

That's a lie. She knows exactly who she's talking to.

''I'm so sorry,'' she drops her gaze down to her stomach. ''I'm so sorry you won't get to meet him.''

She closes her eyes, licking her lips and trying to relax her body. She rubs her hand up and down her stomach softly. He would have been so happy. She knows that. He would have been terrified and nervous as hell, but he would have been happy. Excited, even. He was great with kids. He was so amazing with Danny de la Vega's son, Nate. He was a natural. He was basically a parent without a child the entire time she knew him. And the last time she was pregnant...

They wanted kids _so badly._

''He was a good man,'' she whispers. ''Your dad. He was a hero. He saved the world. He saved the world a lot, actually.'' A strangled laugh escapes her lips. ''He saved so many people. Including me. He - He would have loved you. He would have loved you so much, baby.''

Life isn't fair. Life is, in fact, one shitfest after another. Don't let anyone tell you different.

When she opens her eyes, Sara is standing in front of her. ''It's gone.''

Laurel lets out a breath. She avoids the disappointed look in her sister's eyes. She doesn't need it. She gets it. She relapsed. She failed. She's pathetic. Whatever. It's over and done with. She can't change what just happened. When Sara hands her an ice cold bottle of water from the fridge, she accepts it gratefully. The cool liquid soothes her burning throat and washes away some of the bitter taste in her mouth. She sips at the water slowly and concentrates on breathing. Without a word, Sara takes a seat next to her on the floor. They don't talk for a few minutes. Laurel drinks her water. Sara watches her out of the corner of her eye. Finally, Laurel can't take the silence anymore. ''I am doing the best I can, Sara,'' she says, utterly exhausted. ''I swear.''

Sara softens. The disappointment and all of the things she clearly wanted to say drain out of her and her shoulders relax. Suddenly, she just looks...sorry. She looks so very sorry. She threads their fingers together and says, softly, ''I know.'' She leans in to press a gentle kiss to Laurel's cheek. ''Nobody's asking you to do anymore than that.''

Laurel clenches her teeth.

_How much do you miss me?_ Dean asks.

More than you will ever know.

.

.

.

Laurel tells her father about the baby the morning of her first doctor's appointment.

She doesn't plan on it. It just sort of slips out.

Her dad is still in the ICU. He's been scheduled for bypass surgery at the end of the week, he's doing as well as can be expected, and he's... He's still here. It's going to be a long recovery, and he's never going to be the same again, but he is going to make it. He has made that perfectly clear to his girls. He's not going to be a detective again. At least not out in the field. When he goes back to work, _if_ he goes back to work, the most he will be doing is desk work. That is a cold, hard truth that all of them are still learning to accept. He hasn't even begun to accept it. He's still talking about ''getting back into fighting shape.'' Like that's an option.

The emotional aspect is easily the hardest part. He had massive internal bleeding, a blood clot, a heart attack, and he's going to have bypass surgery. Not to mention, his oldest daughter was kidnapped by a mad man, his youngest daughter went back to her former job as an assassin, and his - for all intents and purposes - son-in-law was murdered. So he has a lot on his plate. His mood differs from day to day. Most of the time, he's his stubborn self, determined to beat this, to be okay again; determined to _make it_. Some days are harder than others. He'll get angry and snap at everyone; the nurses, the doctors, his daughters. One time, he kicked Sara out of his room because she was being too cheerful. Another time, he yelled at Laurel because she was babying him.

Those days are getting more and more frequent as he continues to be cooped up in the hospital, kept out of the action, unable to do anything but sit there and think about how he almost died and how he'll never be the same. He's starting to push people away. Because he's _scared._

Laurel understands this. She really, really, really does. You have no idea how much.

She will also admit that she and Sara could be handling this better. Sara is almost maniacal in her cheerfulness, praising every little thing he does with coos and forehead kisses, like he's a child learning how to walk. Their mother left a few days ago after he blew up at her. She said she had to get back to work. It was a lie. There's a part of her that really can't blame her mom for leaving - her father was a complete jerk to her and honestly, they're not married anymore, she doesn't necessarily have a responsibility to stay - but the other part of her, the bitter part, just scoffs and thinks, _Well, Lord knows running when things get hard is what Dinah Lance does best._

For her part, Laurel isn't doing much better. Laurel - who people forget was there during his drinking, the only one who was, the only one who picked his drunken self up from dive bars in the middle of the night, wearing her pajamas and trying not to cry - is trying to focus her efforts on distracting him. She doesn't want to baby him, she doesn't want to get frustrated with him, and she knows that she'll never be able to one hundred percent understand how he's feeling, so she is just trying to keep his mind on something else.

That's why she winds up blurting out her baby news one morning, in his hospital room, while he and Sara are arguing.

Laurel and Sara have breakfast with their father every morning. It mostly consists of tea for Laurel, hot chocolate for Sara (because even the smell of coffee can send Laurel running to the bathroom, so Sara has opted to give up coffee for the time being, which is an incredibly sweet gesture, especially coming from Sara, who once said that if injecting coffee straight into her veins was an option she would do it in a heartbeat) and their father lamenting over how ''if he had known his last cup of coffee was his last cup ever he would have savored it more.''

And there's always at least a little awkwardness. The day after their mother leaves town, Sara and Laurel spend most of the morning looking at each other, unsure of what to say. One morning, when Laurel has to duck out of the room to go deal with a bad bout of morning sickness, she and Sara have to spend the rest of the morning convincing her father that she hasn't fallen off the wagon and it's not a hangover. Another time, he wanted to talk about Dean, so they wound up telling Sara stories about Dean and Laurel ended up dissolving into tears, which made him cry and it was a big sob fest. Then there are all the things they're avoiding talking about. Laurel's avoiding talking about her work, their father's avoiding talking about his health, and they're all avoiding talking about Sara's job and the fact that it's becoming increasingly obvious, judging from all the phone calls from Nyssa, that the League wants Sara back ASAP.

But Sara and Laurel always show up as soon as visiting hours start for breakfast with their dad, and no matter how weird things get, or how bad of a mood he's in, when they leave, they always hug him goodbye, tell him they love him, and he smiles.

Today, however. Today is shaping up to be a bad day. Laurel is not feeling well, she's nervous about her doctor's appointment, and she's trying to mentally prepare herself for the meeting at work this afternoon. Sara is upset, still tense from the screaming match she got into with Nyssa over the phone, and she looks like she wants to punch someone. Their father's mood is not much better. He's surly from the minute they get there and he won't tell them why.

It starts with awkward silence, delves into stilted conversation, and the next thing Laurel knows, an argument has erupted between her father and her sister. She's not sure what it's about - they seem to be jumping around a lot. One minute it's about Nyssa, the next it's about his health, then about Mom. They're all over the place. Just like old times. When they were teenagers, Laurel was the one who got into fights with their mother the most, which involved wordy rants and speeches and the silent treatment. Sara was the one who got into it with their father the most. They could scream at each other for hours. About anything and everything. In any space. One time, they got into a fight about Sara's bad boy boyfriend during dinner at a restaurant downtown and the whole family was asked to leave.

Laurel doesn't know who started this fight - she has been too busy trying to breathe through nausea and not throw up on the floor - but she's well aware of who is going to have to end it. She plans on standing up, inserting herself between them and informing them that they are in a hospital and they need to lower their voices because this is unacceptable behavior from two grown adults. That is her plan. Instead, for some reason, what happens is this:

Still sitting rigidly on the chair, staring down at her styrofoam cup of tea, she blurts out, ''I'm pregnant,'' without even looking up.

There is complete and utter silence in response to that.

Feeling strangely calm, Laurel lifts her eyes. Sara has whirled around to face her, an unidentifiable expression in her eyes. Her father is staring at her, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, too stunned to speak. When she notices his shock slowly give way to pity, she looks away from him and places her cup down on the floor. ''You're...'' He sounds like he has rocks in his throat.

She stares at the ground and pinches her lips together stubbornly. Okay, no. If he starts crying, she'll start crying. She stands up and meets his eyes, allowing a soft smile to grace her lips. ''Going to have a baby,'' she confirms. ''Yes.''

He is silent for a long time, which is...worrying. ''Is this...?'' He glances over at Sara, then back to Laurel. ''Are we happy about this?''

''Yes,'' she says. ''We're very happy.''

''I'm going to be a grandpa?''

''You're going to be a grandpa.''

He smiles. She can tell he's still trying to wrap his head around the news, but the smile he offers her is genuine and she can see the excitement in his eyes. ''I guess this means I'm officially an old man,'' he jokes.

''You're _distinguished_,'' Sara corrects.

''Congratulations, D,'' he says, and it's the old childhood nickname that does it. _D._ For Dinah. Dinah Laurel Lance. He used to call her that all the time. It feels like forever since he's used the nickname. She feels small, suddenly. Like she's a kid again. She has the sudden urge to crawl into the bed with him and let him wrap her up in his arms and protect her from the world like he used to do when she was little.

She takes his hand and smiles, eyes bright. ''Thank you.'' She leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. ''Now you have something to look forward to,'' she whispers in his ear.

She hopes that will be enough.

.

.

.

In the waiting room of the doctor's office, Laurel's nerves have shifted into terror.

She found out she was pregnant through a blood test at the hospital and when she told the doctor about the trauma she had been through, she was ushered off to another wing of the hospital for a full check up to see ''if'' there was a heartbeat. That was the exact word that was used. _If._ And there had been. But she had been too shocked to pay attention, to hear the thump-thump over the roaring in her ears. She listened to everything the doctor told her, she asked for a print out of the ultrasound, she even went down to the hospital pharmacy to get prenatal vitamins. Then... Then she just shut down. Her father was in the hospital, in serious condition, her sister was off with a bunch of assassins _being_ an assassin, she had no idea where Dean was, and she and Tommy had almost died. She couldn't think about a pregnancy. At least not until she could talk about it with Dean.

Now she's going to get to hear the heartbeat. She's going to get to hear the heartbeat, she's going to get at least three copies of the ultrasound, she's going to listen to everything the doctor tells her, and it's going to be terrifying and wonderful and exciting.

Unless.

Unless there is no heartbeat. It's a glass half empty line of thought. She knows she should be thinking happy thoughts, and that's exactly what she's trying to do. Thinking of all the things that could go wrong never helps. She should be thinking confident, positive thoughts instead of what ifs. It's just that it's hard not to think about those things when you've been through them.

.

.

.

Her first pregnancy was planned. Nobody knows that.

The list of people who knew about her pregnancy was extremely short. She had horrible morning sickness. The morning sickness is uncomfortable this time around, most of the time, she manages to keep things down pretty well. Her first pregnancy, however. That was a nightmare. She could barely keep anything down. Dean had to bundle her up and take her to the emergency room one night because she was so dehydrated. It was hard to hide the constant vomiting from people. Joanna and Sam figured out she was pregnant for themselves. She told her father because he was concerned for her health and thought something was seriously wrong.

Other than that, nobody knew.

She had wanted to wait until she was in her second trimester to make the announcement. Dean had wanted to shout it from the rooftops the minute he saw the positive pregnancy test, but she had read somewhere that it was the ''safest'' option.

_Nobody_ knew it had been planned.

They had started talking about trying for a baby almost immediately after he got back from Purgatory - partly because they genuinely wanted it and partly because they were, somewhat desperately, trying to make up for lost time - but they put it off for a few months, just to give themselves some more time to think it over. They made the decision to officially start trying right before Christmas. She was pregnant by April.

A few days before she took in Taylor Moore, she took a pregnancy test while Dean was out getting dinner. It was positive. She can remember the anxiety she felt while she was pacing in the bathroom, waiting for the results. She can remember the coiled bundle of nerves and excitement sitting in her stomach like a rock. She can remember the happiness she felt when she saw those two pink lines. Most of all, what she remembers vividly, is Dean's reaction. He came into the bedroom the same time she exited the bathroom with the pregnancy test in her hand, and the second he saw it, her name died on his lips and he froze. Just stopped in his tracks and stared, open mouthed, at the tiny strip of plastic for at least a good minute.

She doesn't think it was the pregnancy test itself that had him frozen. They had been actively trying for a baby. He had gotten used to the sight of pregnancy tests. It was the look on her face that made this time different. ''Is that...?''

''It is.''

''Is it...?''

She nodded, lips tightening. ''It's positive.''

He blinked rapidly, swinging his gaze from her face to the pregnancy test and then back to her face. ''You're pregnant?'' It unnerved her that she couldn't decipher the look in his eyes. Usually she could decode his mood just from looking into his eyes. She was pretty proud of that fact. ''You're pregnant,'' he repeated, not a question this time. The corners of his lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but couldn't quite manage it. It worried her a little. Trying for a baby meant a hypothetical baby; a maybe baby; the mere idea of being parents. Her actually being pregnant meant they were going to be parents. It meant an actual real baby. Yeah, okay, so technically at that point, it was more of a lump of cells/parasite but it was a parasite they planned for, a lump of cells they very much wanted...

Right?

He did still want to have a baby with her, right? Oh, god. What if he didn't want to have a baby with her anymore? What if he had changed his mind?

Abruptly, visions of a sad, unhappy future crashed into her. She would be a single mother who had to work overtime just to get by. Dean would get the kid on the weekends and every other Wednesday. He'd be the fun parent - pie for dinner, pillow forts, and your bedtime is never - and her child would favor him, even though _she_ was the reason they could afford the good school and the organic groceries. They'd grow to hate each other (he would resent her for trapping him, she would hate him for leaving her like everyone else) and when they saw each other, they'd both go for the heart just to make it hurt.

''You've got a lot of your father in you, don't you?'' She would ask, with a perfectly sweet, perfectly venomous smile, relishing in the way he would recoil.

He would come back with a sneer of, ''You look like your mother when you smile like that, _Dinah._ I think I finally understand why Oliver got on that boat with your sister.''

And their child would hear all of it, hiding behind her father's leg, crushed and frightened, resentment starting in her young heart and growing and growing until she grew up to be just as damaged as they were, if not more.

Wait. Wait, no. That was ridiculous. That wasn't them. That would never be them. They would never say things like that to each other.

She took a deep breath and tried to smile. ''I'm pregnant,'' she said. ''Hey.'' In an effort to diffuse the tension that really only existed in her head, she punched him on the shoulder playfully and joked, ''Go team, huh?''

It clearly wasn't what he was expecting because he looked mildly startled for a brief second and then, lips curving into a genuine smile, he started to laugh. ''We're going to have a baby,'' he said, and his voice was so unusually, uncharacteristically soft, so raw with emotion and awe, that it just swept all of her worries away. Relief seeped into her smile and she started to cry, tears of joy and excitement and fear and relief, and then he was scooping her up in his arms and twirling her around.

Three weeks later, she lost the baby.

.

.

.

Her doctor is cold.

Professional, thorough, clearly intelligent, but compassionless and flippant. Laurel doesn't want to assume it's because he's a man because you know what they say about assuming, but at the same time, this crotchety, white haired doctor most likely doesn't know what it feels to wake up in the middle of the night bleeding and cramping so badly you can't even speak, fully aware of what's happening and powerless to stop it, so let's be real: it's probably because he's a man.

He somehow manages to have a tone of voice that is both bored and impatient when he asks her, ''Is this your first pregnancy?''

She doesn't know what to say. She looks over at Sara, who is staring at the 3D diagram of a dilating cervix and the posters of a woman's changing body during pregnancy, pale and horrified. ''It's my second,'' Laurel says, so quietly and reluctantly it's like she's confessing to a crime.

Sara whips her head around to face Laurel. She looks alarmed.

''I miscarried last year,'' Laurel goes on. There is no tremor in her voice. She says it matter-of-fact, strongly, but she doesn't dare look at Sara. ''I was injured in the earthquake. They checked me out at the hospital and said I was fine. They said my pelvic bones had likely protected the...'' She trails off. The what? The baby? Was it a baby? ''But I miscarried the night after. I was never given an answer as to why. I don't know if it was because of the trauma, or the stress, or just some random thing.''

''If the trauma was severe enough, it was most likely the cause,'' the doctor says, voice clipped.

She flinches. Yeah, well, she's definitely going to be switching doctors after today so there. She is already perfectly aware that it was her fault, thank you. She doesn't need anyone to remind her of that.

When she can bring herself to look over at Sara, she notices that Sara is glaring at the doctor with narrowed eyes and an extreme level of malice. Laurel is struck by the sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. She knows that her little sister is not just that beautiful, stuffed shark hugging ballerina anymore. She knows that Sara is dangerous. She is a leather clad vigilante with blood on her hands and one hell of a protective streak. But here she is, all 5'5 of her, glaring daggers at some asshole doctor who is, let's face it, probably near retirement. It's so outlandish that she can't help but let out a quiet chuckle. The sound of her laugh seems to relax Sara, because she looks away from the doctor and focuses on Laurel, offering her a soothing smile.

Laurel knows from experience that the first doctor's appointment is not only the longest but the one that sends your head spinning because of information overload. This time is no different. The doctor asks her roughly a gazillion questions, takes blood and urine samples, does fifty thousand tests including a pelvic exam and pap smear, and then comes the heartbeat.

The doctor is a straight up douchebag, there's no denying that, and if Laurel doesn't switch doctors, Sara _will_ end up introducing his head to the wall. He goes over the lists of things to do, things not to do, things to avoid, with a truly impressive level of condescension in his voice. She talks about the addiction issues on both her side of the family and the baby's father's side, and he's openly judgmental about it. He is downright gross when she reveals her own addiction issues and how relatively new sobriety is for her. He is also quite perturbed by the lack of a father and only stops asking ''if she's sure he won't be joining us'' when Sara hisses at him, ''He was a _hero_ who_ died_, could you maybe think about shutting up about it?'' Which is the nicest thing Sara has ever said about Dean.

By the end of the appointment, Sara is ready to leap over Laurel and throw the doctor out the window. Laurel, on the other hand, would gladly and willingly sit through hours of his bullshit without giving a single fuck because she knows what's coming and she knows it's worth it.

The heartbeat comes at the end of the appointment. After all of the tests and the lectures, she lays back in her paper gown, and she gets to hear the heartbeat.

This is the moment where it sinks in. Not the pregnancy. That has already sunk in. The constant nausea made sure of that. The fact that she is going to be a mother. There is a small, cynical part of her that is saying, _don't get your hopes up, that's not what happened last time, something could still go wrong, you could still lose it_. For the most part, however, mostly what she is thinking is that she's going to be somebody's mom.

In a few months, there will be a baby. A tiny little human with soft fuzz and that clean, milky, baby smell, swaddled in blankets. A helpless infant who will need her. Then there will be a toddler with sticky fingers, a gummy smile, and a propensity for jumping in mud puddles without rain boots. A gap toothed kindergartener who runs and plays, screams at the top of their lungs, scrapes their knees, and still fits perfectly into her arms. An elementary schooler who loves the monkey bars, sings in the school play with the rest of their class, and desperately wants to swing from building to building with Uncle Ollie. A twelve year old who doesn't want her forehead kisses anymore but always turns around and smiles on their way into school, and can't decide whether they want to be a superhero like Auntie Sara or a superhero like Daddy. A rebellious teenager who cuts curfew, slams doors, sneaks out, and talks back but still asks, every now and then, when things are quiet, ''Do I look like him?''

She wants their child to have his eyes. His beautiful green eyes, so much like his mother's. She wants their child to have his laugh. She wants their child to know who he was; all of the amazing things he did, all of the people he saved, all of the wonderful ways he loved her and how much he would have wanted him or her, if only he had known. They are going to have a baby. There is going to be a whole new person in the world made from pieces of them. And Dean will never know.

Not for the first time, she is struck by the crushing, blinding unfairness of it all. It is a sharp pain in her chest, an intake of breath, a twisting in her gut. The version of Dean who lives in her head, the one who haunts her out of the corner of her eye, the ghost in the machine, says, _I would have stayed for you._

She wants to thank him for leaving behind this last piece of him, she wants to scream at him for daring to leave her when he promised her he wouldn't, and she wants to promise him that she will protect this baby with all that she has.

Sara, who had scrambled for Laurel's hand the moment the delicate thump-thump-thump started to echo through the room, manages to sum it all up in one breathless, ''Holy fucking shit.''

Laurel, suddenly aware of the wetness on her cheeks, starts to laugh. She doesn't bother to wipe away her tears. She squeezes her little sister's hand and says, ''I know, right?''

Neither one of them look away from the grainy black and white image on the screen.

In her head, the ghost asks, _Why couldn't I stay?_

.

.

.

Laurel hasn't been into the office since Kate Spencer was killed.

She feels like she should be surprised by the absolute mess that greets her when she walks into the offices, but she's really not. She may not have been part of Spencer's inner circle - Kate's dislike of her was fairly well known throughout the office, which Laurel fully understands because she did, after all, blackmail her twice - but she admired her greatly. Kate Spencer was a brilliant, ruthless lawyer. She ran a tight ship. Without her, the DA's office is fucked. This is a fact.

Kate Spencer was also a single mother of a six year old boy named Ramsey.

That is a thought that slams into Laurel violently when she walks into the office and sees Kate's empty chair. It leaves her winded, heart racing in her chest, guilt blooming in her gut. If she had pushed the Sebastian Blood issue, if she had taken care of him sooner, realized what he was, would that little boy still have a mother? Would Starling City still have a kickass District Attorney to protect them?

If you're a person of power in this corrupt city of shadows, are you inherently in danger? How many children have lost parents in the past two years? How many children are going to lose parents in the next two? The next five? The next twenty? Is that what's going to happen to her? Will she be the next Starling City parent to die? Has she become a target just by getting pregnant?

The acting DA is a sweaty man in a wrinkled, ill fitting suit. He looks utterly terrified to be in this position of power. When he invites her into the office (not Kate's office, he says it wouldn't feel right), she settles herself in the chair across from the desk and idly wishes she could pop one of the ginger chews she's taken to carrying around with her into her mouth without it seeming rude. She watches him shuffle case files around on his disproportionately messy desk and listens to him clear his throat obnoxiously. She crosses one leg over the other and her dark blue skirt rides up, just a little. His eyes sweep over her legs briefly before he looks away, dabbing at his forehead with a disgustingly damp handkerchief.

She grimaces.

When she somehow manages not to roll her eyes at him, she mentally pats herself on the back.

''Mr. Anderson,'' she says, interrupting his nervous fidgeting. The sound of her voice seems to startle him. ''If you're going to fire me, can you please get it over with? I have things.''

His lips part and he stares at her with stunned, beady eyes. ''I'm not going to fire you,'' he tells her. He seems legitimately offended by the mere suggestion.

''You're not?''

''Of course not.'' He sits back in his chair. ''Ms. Lance,'' he says. ''I don't want to fire you. I want to promote you.''

...Oh. She had not been expecting that. ''Promote me?''

''Yes.'' He clasps his hands. ''Ms. Lance, how would you feel about being the new District Attorney?''

Laurel's heart drops into her stomach.

What happens if she dies? If she becomes the next parental casualty? What happens then? What happens to her child if she dies here, in this office, just like Kate Spencer did? What would happen to her little orphaned son or daughter? Would Sara take them in? Dad? Tommy? How much of their life would they spend missing the father they never knew and the mother who was taken away from them? She swallows hard. In this city, chances are she'll die young.

But she doesn't want to die here.

.

.

.

Laurel is trying really hard not to panic right now.

Yes, okay, so she just made a snap decision that will one hundred percent change her life. Yes, it's entirely possible that she just threw everything she has ever worked for down the drain. And yes, she is freaking the fuck out and screaming internally. But she's about to walk into her apartment, Sara most likely will be there, and she's not sure if she wants to share her secret just yet. She feels like she should sleep on it. If she wakes up tomorrow and has no desire to change her mind, then she'll tell her. If she wakes up tomorrow thinking she's made the worst mistake of her life, then she'll call Anderson, beg, and there'll be nothing left to tell.

She steps off the elevator and takes three deep breaths. Somebody told her, once, that taking three deep breaths is supposed to help with anxiety. She's not really sure why. It's most likely more of a placebo effect than anything else. If you are told that this will help, then your mind will be open to it helping. Regardless, it is something that has stuck with her. To be brutally honest, it stopped helping a long time ago but it's still a nervous habit of hers.

Laurel takes three deep breaths, paints on a smile, and pretends she's okay. It's been like that for so long she's forgotten if there was ever any other way to be.

The apartment is dark when she walks in, save for one dim lamp and a few scattered candles. She can smell vanilla from the candles and the faintest hint of coffee, which is probably the reason for the scented candles. And the very first thing she hears, upon entering, is Dean's laugh.

She holds her breath. Her keys slip from her suddenly numb fingers and go clattering to the floor along with her bag.

There's this nasty, cruel moment where she starts to wonder. Has she gone crazy? Was it all a dream? Is there room for hope? Maybe he was never gone. He was here, he was always here, waiting for her, and she was just having a terrible, extremely vivid nightmare. Or maybe he's come back. It wouldn't be the first time. Maybe there's one last miracle for them. Maybe they get one last chance to get it right this time.

Then she hears Danny de la Vega's voice.

Still feeling numb from the shock, she makes her way into the living room. Her hope disintegrates all at once, her breath whooshing out of her and her shoulders deflating. Sara is already standing, looking guilty and panicked. She's talking but Laurel honestly can't hear anything over the roaring in her ears and the voices of the dead men. Her eyes are glued to the television screen where Dean and Danny are laughing, the both of them lit up by the array of the Christmas lights behind them. They look so happy, glowing in the lights, chatting amicably. They look so alive.

There are ghosts in her home.

The two murdered men on the screen have no idea what's going to happen to them. Danny has no idea that in a matter of months, he will burn up, killed by a broken man with a chip on his shoulder, leaving his family reeling and his son orphaned. Dean has no idea that he will eventually die slowly, over a matter of months, withering and crumpling under an enormous weight until a blade tears through him and takes him away. They have no idea how it will end for them.

She remembers that night. It was the year before last, the first weekend in December. It was the night of the annual light up in downtown Starling City. Every year, on the first weekend in December, they lit up the huge Christmas tree down by the water and then had a party. It was more for kids than adults, with hot chocolate, live music, an outdoor skating rink, and a ''surprise'' visit from Santa Claus himself (aka the Mayor because a Mayor who dresses up like Santa Claus gets mad respect, which leads to votes). It was an event for kids and their parents. Before that night, the last time Laurel had been to it was when she was twenty and Sara had dragged her there to skate, which mostly meant both of them in a crumpled heap on the ice, giggling madly because neither one of them knew how to skate.

That year, Nate de la Vega had begged them to come along with him and his dad, and Dean and Laurel had always been bad at saying no to Nate. They went to the light up with Nate, Joanna, and Danny, who had been toting a video camera because A) he was a dad, and B) he was bound and determined to get his sister - a former figure skater - back out on the ice.

It was a good night. She remembers that.

Less than three months later, Danny was dead.

Laurel swallows the lump in her throat. There are so many people in this blurry, shaking home movie who she misses. Dean, Danny, Jo, Nate. Those last two are of her own making, she knows. She was the one who pushed Jo away after the earthquake, while she was spiraling. She and Dean both dropped the ball with Nate. They promised that little boy, after Danny's death, that they weren't going to leave him. That they would always be there for him. That they would help Jo adjust to suddenly raising her nephew on her own. _Our door is always open_, they had said. They failed. Miserably. They kept up with their promise for awhile, but after everything that happened in their lives... Things sort of went to shit. They did their best. They_ did._ But then. Well.

Maybe it was selfish of them to break apart the way they did. Maybe they should have tried harder to breathe, to live through it rather than waiting to die. Maybe they should have been there for Nate, for Jo, for Sam and Sara, for everyone but themselves, like they always had before, but the fact remains that is not how it happened. The bitter truth - the one she's never said out loud, the one everyone refuses to acknowledge - is that there were times then they _didn't_ want to live through it. One of them didn't.

Still, watching this, seeing how happy they were, how much that boy adored them, Laurel can't help but feel guilty. They fucked up. They fucked up big.

On the screen, there is the distinctive squeal of mic feedback and then someone starts talking. Danny swivels the camera around to face the MC - it was Adam Donner that year, he had introduced himself to her later that night, told her he admired what she was doing with CNRI - and while Adam drones on about the history of the light up, Laurel notices Dean and Nate, standing at the back of the crowd, just in the camera's view. Nate tugs on Dean's sleeve and Dean leans down so that Nate can whisper something in his ear. Whatever he says, it makes Dean laugh. Full on head tilted back, full body laughter.

Laurel can't help but smile.

That is where Sara chooses to pause it.

Of _course_ it is.

Laurel cannot look away from the frozen image of Dean laughing. As it turns out, videos are different. Looking at a picture of Dean is one thing, but watching a video of him laughing and happy brings on a whole new wave of excruciating devastation. Awesome.

She looks away from the screen and surveys the mess of the living room with a sigh. Sara has Laurel's laptop open and a slideshow of pictures is playing silently, there are photo albums open on the table and loose photographs on the floor. Laurel's entire relationship is splayed out on her living room floor, laid bare in front of Sara, from home movies to pictures to the Wish You Were Here postcards of the American Midwest that Dean sent her when he was on the road; his way of saying, _I miss you._

Her first instinct is to be angry. She is trying her best to stay upright these days. She is trying really hard to want to stay. It's hard work and it's every day and just as she manages to reach a point where she thinks she might be able to someday find something that at least resembles okay, Sara goes and brings out all of the pieces of the life she doesn't get to live anymore. And she didn't even ask. Laurel wants to be angry. She wants to be frustrated that Sara rifled through her things. But then she sees her sister's face.

Sara's face is pale and streaked with tears. Her lower lip is trembling and her entire body is shivering from the effort it's taking for her to keep somewhat composed. Laurel has no idea what's going on, but whatever it is, she needs to fix it. ''Sara, what - ''

''I wanted to know,'' Sara says, voice raspy and shaky. ''I wanted to know who he was. You... You were right.'' She wrings her hands nervously, glancing over at the mess on the floor. ''I...'' She closes her eyes, regretful. ''...I thought the worst of him. I have a hard time trusting men. I have a hard time seeing the good in them after what I've been through. And when I saw Dean...'' She shrugs, looking strangely helpless, which is such a weird thing to see because Sara Lance has _never_ been helpless. ''He was...gruff and surly and I thought...'' She trails off, swallowing audibly. ''I don't know what I thought. You were just so vulnerable when I came back, Laurel.''

Laurel shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, looking down at her shoes.

''You were suffering,'' Sara says, ''and I couldn't let him hurt you. I _refused_ to let him hurt you. I thought the worst of him, I did, and maybe that was wrong. I don't know. I don't know him at all. But you loved him. You loved him _so much_. He couldn't have been that bad. So I - I snooped. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.'' She shakes her head. ''I just wanted to know.''

Which is sweet, and Laurel loves her just a little bit more for it, but somehow she doubts this breakdown is because Sara has joined Team Dean and is grieving the loss along with her. She may be trying to understand but she doesn't change her mind that easily. She never has. Laurel knows this. She takes a cautious step toward her sister. ''Sara - ''

''How can you look at me?''

Um.

That took an unexpected turn.

Laurel frowns. ''What?'' She reaches for Sara, but Sara backs away from her like she's afraid her touch will turn her to dust. Laurel stops. She wants to wrap her sister up in her arms and do anything to get her to stop crying, but she doesn't. It's clear that it's not what Sara wants at this moment, so Laurel stays a safe distance away and gives Sara room to breathe. Even that doesn't seem to help. ''Sweetie, what are you - ''

''How can you even stand to be in the same room as me after everything that's happened to you because of me?''

A lump forms in Laurel's throat and she can't speak. She wouldn't know what to say anyway. She clutches the back of the sofa, fingers digging into the fabric. ''...Oh, _Sara_.''

''You were _happy_, Laurel,'' Sara spits out angrily. There is a startling amount of venom in her voice. It makes Laurel wince. Regret seems to be weighing Sara down, pulling her into herself, making her appear small and childlike, and there are tears slipping down her cheeks. She has never looked more like that little ballerina who chased butterflies and crawled into bed with her big sister when she had a nightmare.

Every single one of Laurel's instincts are screaming, _Protect._

''You were happy here,'' Sara gestures toward the pictures. ''That's what I learned. You were happy despite me. Despite Oliver. Despite everything that happened, you were strong enough to find happiness again. And it's not fair that you didn't get to keep that. Oliver came back and you got sucked right back into his tornado of a life. And then I came back. And I'm sorry. We shouldn't have...'' She wraps her arms around herself. ''We didn't deserve to come back. You didn't deserve this. We - Oliver and I have been chipping away at you for years and it's not fair. You were poisoned because of me. Kidnapped because of Oliver. Every bad thing that has happened to you has happened because I got on that stupid boat with your boyfriend.''

Laurel grimaces. ''That's not true.''

''It is! It is true, Laurel!'' Sara is bordering on hysterics. She's crying these gulping, heaving sobs and she's shivering uncontrollably. Laurel is trying not to think too hard about what Sara is saying. Once upon a time, she would have given anything to hear these words. To hear someone tell her that all that hate and all that anger that she carried around for years was justified. But now.

She is tired, okay? She feels like she keeps saying that but nobody seems to understand what she's saying. When she says she's tired, she doesn't mean she needs rest. She doesn't mean she needs a vacation or a day off. She means she is tired of this life. She's not tired of life in general. She's just tired of _this_ life. This shitty life that never gets any better. This fucked up existence where she is never allowed to hurt, or be happy, or move on, or do anything, without someone commenting on how she's not doing it right or bringing up things she has worked her ass off trying to move on from just because they need absolution.

What she means when she says she's tired is that she needs something else.

''I was a stupid, selfish little girl,'' Sara snarls, with such contempt and malice that Laurel is startled by it. She hasn't heard that amount of self hatred since Dean. Or the voices in her own head. ''I made a bad choice and you were the one who was punished for it! How is that fair? How can you not hate me? I destroyed your entire life. I ruined you. You should hate me. Why don't you hate me?''

She is rambling and barely coherent, nose running, tears streaming down her face, a mess of heaving sobs and screeches. Laurel will never say this out loud, but there is a tiny part of her that is relieved. Sara was never a quiet girl. She was always stubborn and hot headed and passionate, just like Laurel, only in a different way. When she felt something, she not only let herself feel it, she let it consume her. If Laurel allowed her feelings to control her, Sara allowed them to shape her and shape her they did. Into a wild, fiery party girl who was fiercely loyal, overprotective, and wanted to be a ballerina. She was never quiet. Ever since she's been back, she has been quiet. She has been walking around with an air of calmness surrounding her. One that doesn't fit. One that isn't Sara. At first, Laurel thought it was some form of maturity. Over time, she had realized that it wasn't a coping mechanism. She was just internalizing it all. It was only a matter of time until she exploded. Laurel has always known that. I mean, look at her. Over this past year, she has exploded like a dying star. She just hadn't been expecting Sara's explosion to go quite like this.

She closes the distance between them in a run, wrapping her baby sister up in her arms. Sara clings to her, just like she used to do when she was little. ''I could never hate you,'' Laurel murmurs.

''You should,'' is the mumbled reply.

''No, I shouldn't.''

''I'm sorry.''

Laurel closes her eyes. ''I know,'' she whispers, stroking Sara's hair lightly. ''I know, Sare-bear.'' She pulls away from the embrace and takes Sara's face in her hands. She doesn't say anything for a moment, she just offers her sister a soft smile and then she wipes away her tears with the pad of her thumb and leans in to kiss Sara's forehead. Sara, no longer sobbing but still sniffling, hands desperately clutching at Laurel's wrists, relaxes ever so slightly at the gesture of comfort, which Laurel is going to count as a victory.

She plucks a tissue from the box on the table and starts mopping up the mess of tears on Sara's cheeks. She's mildly surprised when Sara lets her. Sara used to moan, ''Oh my god, Laurel, stop it. I already have a mom. I don't need another one.'' Never mind the fact that their mother was never the kind of mom who wiped away her child's tears. She was the kind of mother who kissed her daughter on the forehead, handed her a tissue, and said, ''Clean yourself up, darling.''

''Listen,'' Laurel says. ''You hurt me, Sara. You did.'' When Sara's lips tighten and the dam threatens to break again, she takes her hands and says, firmly, ''You did _not_ ruin me. Okay? Only I have the power to do that.''

Sara grabs another tissue and tears away at it nervously, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot. ''I'm still sorry,'' she says, lifting her gaze. ''I need you to know that. I've never... I've owed you this apology forever and it still doesn't feel like enough. I'm so sorry. I will be sorry for the rest of my life.''

''Well, I don't want that,'' Laurel states bluntly. ''I don't want you to live with that. I just want you to live.''

Sara smiles weakly. She blows her nose and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. ''You know,'' her voice is still thick with the tears clogging up her throat. She nods to the TV. ''He did have a great laugh.''

It's not quite approval and it's clear she only wants to change the subject, but Laurel appreciates it nonetheless. ''He did,'' she says. ''Hey,'' she reaches over to grasp Sara's hand, pulling her down onto the couch with her. ''Let me show you something.'' She picks up one of the photo albums - the one full of Christmas pictures, past and present - and flips through it until she finds what she's looking for. Sandwiched in between a picture of her and Grandma and the posed picture of her with Mom and Dad in front of the Christmas tree is a picture of her and Dean sitting at the dinner table, smiling for the camera, pressed close together. It would be a perfectly happy picture if it weren't for the fact that not ten minutes before this picture was taken, she had been sitting at the table weeping, with Dean whispering in her ear, desperately trying to calm her down before anyone - especially her father - noticed. ''Do you see this picture? This was Christmas day a couple years ago. Notice how red my eyes are? It's because I kept randomly bursting into tears all day because Christmas was your birthday and your favourite holiday and you weren't there to celebrate it with me.''

She flips the page and points to another picture. ''See how worn out I look here? This was taken a few days after Christmas. The day after Christmas, I spent the entire day in bed, sobbing, because I missed you. I always missed you. I missed everything about you. From watching you dance to when you would call me and ask for money because you were too scared to ask Mom and Dad.'' She hands Sara the album and grabs her laptop, flicking through the pictures until she gets to one of her and Joanna. ''And this? This was a week before the anniversary of when the boat went down. Jo wanted to cheer me up, so she took me out for dinner and drinks but all I could think of was you.''

She pushes the laptop away from her and takes Sara's hands in hers. ''I was happy with Dean, Sara,'' she says, ''but I was never happy that you were gone. Whatever mistakes you made, whatever anger I was holding onto, I loved you. I _love_ you.'' She's not sure what else she can say to make it better, to get through to Sara, so she just smiles tenderly and ticks a strand of Sara's hair behind her ear. ''You're my girl.'' Sara doesn't answer, but she doesn't need to. She's staring down at the Christmas pictures, lips pressed together, looking thoughtful. Laurel squeezes her hand gently. ''I feel like tonight's an ice cream for dinner kind of night,'' she says. ''I'm going to go pull out my emergency rocky road.''

''That's not a balanced meal,'' Sara says. ''Little Lance needs healthy foods.''

Laurel shrugs, rising to her feet and stripping off her red coat. ''Then we'll dip celery sticks and baby carrots in the ice cream.''

''That's messed up,'' Sara calls after her, though Laurel can hear the smile in her voice.

Laurel laughs. ''Just wait until the pregnancy cravings start.'' She makes it as far as three steps before she halts in her tracks, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. Her entire body goes rigid and tense and her breath catches. There is something incredibly distinctive about the feeling of eyes on you. She can't describe it, but it's something she knows all too well. She knows what it feels like to be watched. Slowly, she turns around to face the window, squinting into the darkness.

''Laurel? What's wrong?''

She strides right over to the window and stares out into the night, searching for prying eyes. She can just make out the roof of the building across the street and the sight of a dark shadow stepping away from the ledge and melting back into the inky night. Her throat dries up. It looked like a person. For a second, the shape of the shadow almost looked like... No. She shakes her head. That's ridiculous. It doesn't make any sense. It's just her grief in overdrive.

''Are you okay?'' Sara is suddenly right beside her, placing a hand on her arm. ''Talk to me.''

Laurel drops her hands to her stomach. ''I,'' it comes out in a croak. ''I'm fine,'' she gets out, which she is. She is fine. She's just grieving. This is normal. You see the dead everywhere you go when you're grieving. That's all. Or, hey. Maybe it was Oliver. He's pretty much a glorified stalker at times. Plus, he's overprotective. Oh, geez. It was definitely Oliver. She lets out a sigh and tries to laugh it off. This is what happens when your friends are overprotective vigilantes, right?

''It was nothing,'' she says, and closes the curtains.

.

.

.

For so long, everything in Dean Winchester's pathetic, miserable mess of a life has always come back to fire.

Everything burns eventually.

His mother, his father, Jess, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Adam, Rufus, Ash, Kevin, and so many others. They're all cinders now, ashes of bones and muscle and flesh that once made a person. How did it take him this long to notice? How could it have taken thirty plus years to realize? _I'll burn for that_, he had said, after Kevin. Except he won't. He's not _going_ to burn, he's not _about_ to burn. He has _always_ been burning. He's been running from the fire since he was four years old and the part he failed to understand is that he never escaped in the first place.

Ruby told him once, _Sooner or later, Hell will burn away your humanity_. She had said it so fiercely, with such conviction, so sure she was right, but she was wrong. Hell hadn't burned away his humanity. Life did.

_You can't outrun the flames forever_, his mother's voice says.

He says, _Then watch me burn for you, Mom._

Fuck running, he has decided. If the fire wants him, it can have him. He'll stand still in the flames and let them lick away at his skin, crawl their way up his body until the only thing left is a burning man. And then he will control it. He may not be able to run from the fire, but do you know what he can do? He can use it.

On the roof, across from the building that still makes his heart drum against his ribcage noisily because _home_, Dean hops up on the ledge and looks down at the lights and the cars and the people below. He spreads his arms wide and stands on one foot, leaning over. His lips curl into a slow, predatory grin. His is utterly indifferent to the height in ways he wasn't before. Ways he never will be again. What does height matter when you're a demon? He's not afraid of falling. He's already fallen as far as he can go.

He looks over at the building across the street. She's not home. He can see her sister moving around, settling down in the living room, but she's not the Lance he came to see. Dean looks away from the window. He tilts his head back to look at the stars. The world is different from a demon's view. He had thought it would be dull and colorless, flat and underwhelming; a disappointment. It's not. The world is anything but underwhelming. It is too colorful, too loud, too violent, too vibrant, too fast, too much. It hurts to look at.

No wonder so many demons wind up going insane.

Emotions are the same. Instead of everything being dulled or lessened, he finds his emotions have been surprisingly heightened since becoming...this. He feels everything. He had never been a halfway kind of guy when he was alive. Not really. He pretended to be but there were always people he couldn't fool. This is completely different. Everything is intense and painful. It cuts deep, crawls under his skin, and he can't get it out. Everything tastes like blood and dirt and ashes. He can still feel that old familiar sorrow in his bones. Is this what it feels like to lose it? In the past week, Dean has learned that being a demon is made up of the most perverse pleasures and the most intense pain.

And then there's Laurel.

He turns back to the warmly lit apartment just in time to see her step through the door, and he almost falls off the ledge. Seeing her is like a sucker punch. It leaves him winded and gasping for breath. When he was alive, he had mistakenly believed demons couldn't love. Oh, how wrong he was. Dean stands there, gawking, mouth open, eyes bright. Laurel Lance has always been gorgeous; poised and elegant, confident posture, legs that go on for miles, angel eyes and a smile that could bring a grown man to his knees. And, in fact, _has._ He should know. He's lost count of how many times he's gotten down on his knees for her. He has never seen her through these eyes before.

She glows. Laurel fuckin' glows.

Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? Have you ever seen anything more alive?

She does look tired, though. Exhausted, really. Run down and ragged. He can't see her close up, but he can tell that her favourite red jacket doesn't fit the way it used to. It's tight across her chest, maybe her stomach too. Otherwise, she looks healthy. Probably healthier than she's been this past year. She looks..._okay_. He tilts his head to the side and walks along the edge as she moves farther into the apartment. He wonders, briefly, if she's taking care of herself. Remembering to eat and sleep. She forgets to eat when she gets in the zone at work. Has she been working a lot lately? Throwing herself into the job like she did after the earthquake? After the miscarriage? He used to have to call her and remind her to take a break and eat, or show up at the office with food. He hopes someone has been reminding her to eat. He hopes someone has been helping her. No one ever helps her.

Sara better be fucking helping her.

He draws in a rattling breath.

Of course she's taking care of herself. She's pregnant. She'll do anything if it means keeping the baby safe and healthy.

_The baby._

There's a baby.

He stumbles off the ledge and back onto the roof. He shouldn't be here. He can't afford to be here. He's putting them in danger. The body remembers her. The body wants to go home. The body can never go home again. _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What is he doing here? He can't be the reason something happens to her or the baby.

''Do I need to kill her?''

Dean stops breathing. His facial expression, which had been stuck somewhere between lost little boy and mildly crazed, shifts easily into homicidal rage. His fists clench. The sorrow stops.

His body says, _Protect._

His mind says, _Don't you dare blow your cover, you worthless sack of shit._

So he laughs. It's a loud, careless king of laughter, bordering on mocking. ''If you feel like it,'' he says lazily, turning to face Crowley. ''Am I supposed to care? She ain't my problem anymore.'' What he means is, _if Laur gets so much as a paper cut that can be traced back to you, I will rip your head from your body with my bare hands and shove it up_ _your ass._ He works really hard not to say that out loud, though. That's probably the kind of thing that would give him away.

Crowley doesn't look like he believes him. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his black coat and his eyes are gleaming, like he's just waiting for Dean to slip up and reveal his true colors. He's a pretty paranoid guy. He doesn't seem to believe that Dean is on his side and he's oddly fixated on the idea of having to recalibrate him. ''Then why are you here, Dean?''

That is a good question. Dean licks his lips, scrambling for an excuse. ''Her sister,'' he says lightly, strolling towards Crowley, gait carefully controlled. ''I wanted to see if she was still in town.''

''Why?''

''Because she's going to be a massive pain in the ass,'' Dean says, arching an eyebrow. ''She works for Queen and the Scooby Gang wannabes. You do know that, right?''

Crowley stares at him for a long time before he clears his throat and nods. ''Of course I knew that.'' The tone of his voice tells Dean that he did not, in fact, know that. He brushes past Dean to look in the apartment window. As soon as Crowley turns his back, Dean rolls his eyes. What a dumbass. He swallows the urge to push the bastard off the roof. ''How good is she?''

''Better than he is.''

Crowley doesn't even hesitate. With a careless shrug of one shoulder, he says, simply, ''Kill her.''

Dean tenses momentarily but forces himself to relax. He laughs; a throaty growl of a laugh. ''Are you a moron?''

When Crowley turns to face him, there is a deep frown marring his face and he looks insulted. ''I feel like that was largely uncalled for.''

Dean makes a show of letting out a long, put upon sigh. ''I'm not killing her, Crowley.''

''You're a _demon_. That's what we do.''

''Look, you want me to take out the Robin Hood cosplayer, that's fine, but I'm not killing Sara Lance.''

''Why not?''

''Because of Laurel.''

Crowley releases his own long suffering sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ''Dean, I'm going to confess something to you. I had high hopes for you. When you turned, I thought this change would make you less of an insufferable, bitter disappointment, but so far you have proven to be nothing more than a pretty face, a brainless idiot, and a completely useless knight of Hell!'' By the end of his overdramatic speech, he is standing on his tip toes just so he can be almost face to face with Dean, inches away from him, spitting mad.

Dean is so proud of himself for not rolling his eyes again. Oh, please. He's heard worse things from his own father. Still, he manages to summon up enough anger to make it look real. With a snarl, he grasps Crowley's jacket, drags him off the ledge and sends his fist crashing into Crowley's nose. The force of the blow sends Crowley to the ground and he barely gets a chance to wipe at the blood before Dean is standing over him, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and yanking him up. ''A knight's job is to protect the king, you ungrateful piece of shit.'' His eyes dilate black and he leans in close. ''You want me to be your knight? Let me do my fucking job.'' He shoves Crowley away from him and stands straight. ''If Sara dies, Laurel will come for us.''

''_Laurel_,'' Crowley laughs around the blood running into his mouth, coloring his teeth a grotesque shade of red, ''is a waste of space human being. What could she possibly do?''

The urge to slam his fist into Crowley's chest and remove his heart is incredibly strong. ''She'll kill you,'' he says. ''And me. And anyone who had a hand in her sister's death.''

''Oh, if only there was a simple solution for that dreadful problem. Just kill her too, you idiot!''

''Okay, and then we'll have Oliver gunning for us.''

''Then kill everyone!''

''Right, because a bloody massacre falls under the category of,'' he curls his fingers into air quotes, ''_flying under the radar_. Isn't that what you said you wanted to do?'' He crosses his arms, watching as Crowley struggles to his feet, attempting to stop the bleeding. ''I'm your knight. You're the one who wanted me to be. I'm not going to do something that pits these people against us. Especially not a pissed off big sis. That would be suicide.''

Crowley considers this, wiping the last bit of blood off his face with his sleeve. Finally, he smiles. It's a creepy smile, with too much teeth and a disturbingly penetrating look in his eyes. ''Awww,'' he steps closer to Dean, then closer, then too close. Dean pushes back a flinch and tries not to think about the momentary flash of fear that skitters through his head at the proximity. Crowley has never been shy about his penchant for lacing almost everything he says with an underlying threat of sexualized violence, and this is not the first fuckin' time he has called Dean pretty. ''You like me,'' Crowley says, voice quiet and honeyed and _disturbing_. ''You really like me.'' He falls silent and stares up at Dean for a moment. Dean forces himself to stay quiet, stay calm, and stay still. It's only when Crowley takes a step back that he even allows himself to breathe. ''If a bloody massacre is out of the question,'' Crowley hums, ''what do you propose?''

''I _propose_,'' is the hissed reply, ''that you get the fuck outta dodge and let me handle this. We're here because you need something. I'll get it for you if you stop fuckin' breathing down my neck.'' He puts his hands on his hips. ''Listen, man, I work for you. Let me work.''

Surprisingly, it only takes Crowley a moment to agree. He cocks his head to the side, studies Dean with narrowed, distrusting eyes, and then shrugs. ''Fine. Do it your way. But if you fail,'' he grins cheerfully and throws his arm around Dean's shoulder. ''I'm going to kill everyone.'' He turns him around to face the apartment across the street. ''Starting with your lovely - apparently lethal - ex and the little thing growing inside of her.''

...Well.

Apparently there is a worse feeling then having a blade driven into your heart. Good to know. He was wondering about that. His jaw clenches. It's hard to pretend to be someone you're not when your whole world is being threatened. ''How did you - ''

''You and me, kiddo,'' Crowley grabs Dean's face in his hands roughly. ''We don't have secrets.'' He pulls back, takes a step away, and when Dean whirls around, he's gone. Always has to make a good entrance and an even better exit, doesn't he? Melodramatic fucker.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and tries to calm his erratic breathing. ''Okay,'' his voice is brittle. Something inside of him threatens to burst. ''Okay. Shit. _Fuck_.'' He squeezes his eyes shut. ''Get it together, Dean. You're a goddamn demon.'' When he opens his eyes, they're back to black. He breathes in deep. The world is full of colors. Stick to the plan, asshole.

Hey.

Do you know what else he has learned?

He is _powerful_. He is more powerful than Crowley, more powerful than Abbadon, hell, he's willing to bet he's even more powerful than Lillith was. He hadn't been expecting that. He knows Crowley hadn't been expecting that. He is not some average, run of the mill demon. He is not a mindless killing machine who can be used as some weapon. The mark on his arm isn't some poorly thought out tattoo. He is the new _Cain_. That means something. Dean moves back over to the ledge and steps up onto it. He watches her through the window, comforted by her glow and the way she moves and the fact that she is obviously very much alive.

You see, right now, Dean Winchester is a supernova.

He may be burning bright right now but sooner rather than later, he will fade. He can feel it. It's like there's a timer in his body, ticking down the days, the minutes, the seconds, until he fades from view. There will be no coming back from this one. And that's okay. That's good. He is ready to go. Wherever he ends up - Heaven, Hell, Purgatory - he is ready for it. The world is so much better off without him, trust him on that one. Sam has made it clear that the weight of his older brother is what's shackling him down and causing his unhappiness, so without Dean, without that weight, maybe he can finally be happy. Laurel will be safe, far away from the supernatural world, the one that got her possessed and traumatized. Cas can worry about his own life, instead of having to constantly pull Dean out of trouble.

He won't even have a chance to turn his kid to ashes. Thank God for that. He hopes that kid grows up _hating_ the thought of him, wanting to be anything but him, and refusing to be a part of the Winchester legacy. He's okay with that. The world needs more Lances. It does not need more Winchesters. That's the way it has to be.

But let's make one thing abso-fucking-lutely clear.

He is taking Crowley with him.

Crowley has been a thorn in his side for years. He wrecked Cas, took Bobby's soul, forced one of his demon lackeys to possess Laurel and nearly killed her, he used Dean as a weapon to kill Abbadon, and now he has_ her._ There is no reason for Crowley to still be breathing.

Dean is going to dismantle his entire organization piece by piece from the inside until there is nothing left, he's going to save her and get her out of Crowley's clutches, he's going to stab the First Blade through that bastard's neck, and then he'll put it through his own charred and useless heart. Blaze of glory. Just like he's always wanted. And nobody's going to save him this time. They're not going to want to. He'll make sure of that.

His lips quirk into a half smile as he watches Laurel stop in her tracks, undoubtedly sensing eyes on her. She turns around and looks right at him. He remains rooted to the ground for a second, taking in the faraway sight of her face, her eyes, her mouth, and then, when she walks towards him, he backs away, slinking back into the shadows. She'll hate him by the end of this. _Good._ Dean turns his back on Laurel and walks away. He doesn't look back.

His mother told him once, hands warm against his skin, _You are my little angel._

The demon laughs.

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Forget the dragon  
>Leave the gun on the table<br>This has nothing to do with happiness

RICHARD SIKEN | LITANY IN WHICH CERTAIN THINGS ARE CROSSED OUT

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**end chapter four**

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><p><strong>AN: Remember in 1x09 when Quentin called Laurel 'D' because Dinah Laurel Lance and then that nickname just disappeared along with the rest of Arrow's potential? I'M BRINGING IT BACK.<strong>

**IMPORTANT NOTE: Sadly, friends, this will be the last chapter of 2014. I'm heading out for the holidays next week and I won't be back until January. The next update will either be on Friday, January 16th or Friday, January 23rd. ...Probably more likely to be the 23rd.**

**I hope everyone has a happy and and safe holiday season and HAPPY NEW YEAR!**  
><strong>Love to you all! :)<strong>

**- Becks**


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